By  Cynthia  Stockley 

J      I 


By  Cynthia  Stockley 
Poppy 

The  Story  of  a  South  African  Girl 

The  Claw 

A  Story  of  South  Africa 

Wanderfoot 
Wild  Honey 


OF  CALIF.  LIBRABY,  LOS  ANGELES 


"I   CANNOT  OFFER   GENTLE    FLOWERS, 

ONLY   THESE    STRANGE   AND    FATEFUL   BLOOMS." 

Beatrice  Irwin, 
Drawn   by   A.  Glossep. 


WILD    HONEY 

STORIES  OF  SOUTH  AFRICA 


BY 

CYNTHIA  STOCKLEY 

AUTHOR    OF  "POPPY,"   "THE    CLAW,"   "  WANDERFOOT,"    ETC. 


AFRICA 

O  I     Come  where  stephanotis  grows. 
And  the  pomegranate  breaks  blood-red. 

Come  where  the  cruel  cactus  blows 
And  pungent  aloes  are  outspread. 


I  cannot  offer  gentle  flowers, 

Only  these  strange  and  fateful  blooms. 

My  love  is  not  for  passing  hours, 
But  for  Eternity  and  Tombs. 

Beatrice  Irwin. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW   YORK   AND    LONDON 

Ube  imicfcerbocfcer  press 
1914 


COPYRIGHT,  1914 

BY 

CYNTHIA  STOCKLEY 


Ube  Ytnicfcerbocfcer  press,  Hew  £?orh 


CO 
J.  Y.  F.  C. 


2133056 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.  WILD  HONEY.    PART  I.        ...        3 

II.  WILD  HONEY.    PART  II.  .        .      48 

III.  COMMON  OR  GARDEN  EARTH        .        .119 

IV.  WATCHERS  BY  THE  ROAD      .        .        .171 
V.  THE  MOLLMEIT  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN     .    225 

VI.    ON  THE  WAY  TO  BEIRA       .        .        .    269 

VII.    PROGRESS 325 

VIII.    THE  PROMISE  OF  LIFE         .        .        .    379 


Wild   Honey 


Wild   Honey 

PARTI 

IT  was  a  six-mule  mail-coach  that  bumped  and 
banged  along  the  rough  highroad  to  Buluwayo, 
and  Vivienne  Carlton  anathematised  the  fate 
that  condemned  her  to  travel  by  it.  Cordially 
she  detested  the  cheerful  garrulity  of  certain  of  her 
fellow-passengers,  quoting  to  herself  Louis  Vance's 
satirical  mot:  "A  pessimist  is  a  person  who  has 
to  live  with  optimists."  Gladly  would  she  have 
slain  the  optimists  with  whom  she  was  so  tightly 
packed  in  the  hooded  body  of  the  cart — for  the 
term  "coach"  was  merely  a  polite  fiction:  the 
affair  was  neither  more  nor  less  than  a  two-seated 
Cape  cart,  with  the  hood  thrown  back  so  that 
the  mules  might  find  the  pulling  easier  and  the 
passengers  be  more  effectively  grilled. 

Two  passengers  shared  the  front  seat  with  the 
driver.  Miss  Carlton  was  wedged  in  the  back 
seat  between  a  perspiring  Cape  Colonial  and  a  tall 
lithe  man  with  a  deeply  tanned  complexion  and 

3 


4  Wild  Honey 

careless  light  grey  eyes,  who  was  as  taciturn  as 
herself.  No  one  looking  at  her  sitting  there  so 
composedly,  closely  veiled  and  gloved,  violet  eyes 
quietly  fixed  on  the  horizon,  her  tall  khaki-clad 
figure  preserving  in  spite  of  its  contiguity  with 
strangers  an  air  of  dainty  aloofness,  would  have 
guessed  her  frame  of  mind.  Her  companions 
had  her  marked  down  as  an  English  girl  whose 
beauty  and  breeding  warranted  her  to  put  on  as 
much  "side"  as  she  liked,  and  in  this  they  were 
not  very  far  from  the  truth.  They  were  also 
certain  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  lord,  and 
wondered  how  she  came  to  be  travelling  alone. 
The  Colonial  and  the  man  who  came  from  Kimber- 
ley  admired  her  madly  without  daring  to  address 
a  word  to  her ;  the  showy  blonde  who  was  going  up 
to  be  a  barmaid  in  Salisbury,  would  have  given  the 
necklace  of  diamonds  she  wore  for  its  safety  under 
her  cotton  blouse,  to  possess  that  aloof  manner 
and  gift  of  remaining  silent  without  being  offens- 
ive. Only  the  third  man  with  his  careless  glance 
that  took  in  every  point  of  the  changing  scene  of 
bush,  and  tree,  and  kop,  had  any  notion  of  what 
was  going  on  behind  the  composed  lovely  face  of 
the  girl  next  to  him.  And  the  reason  he  knew 
was  that  though  he  looked  like  a  pirate  or  a 
Klondike  miner,  or  anything  that  was  reckless  and 


Wild  Honey  5 

disreputable  he  was  really  of  the  same  world  as 
herself,  and  could  very  well  guess  how  the  dis- 
comfort and  hateful  intimacy  of  coach-travelling 
outraged  her.  But  even  he  was  far  from  guessing 
at  the  hopeless  fury,  and  bitter  disdain  of  her 
surroundings  and  the  world  in  general  that  was 
rankling  in  the  heart  so  close  to  him  that  he  could 
almost  feel  its  beating. 

Vivienne  Carlton's  hand  was  against  all  men 
as  she  believed  all  women's  to  be  against  her ;  but 
she  had  learned  to  conceal  the  fact  well.  Not  by 
brandishing  her  scorn  and  detestation  of  it  could 
she  hope  to  get  back  her  own  from  a  world  that  had 
treated  her  badly.  Two  years  of  struggling  for  a 
living  in  the  ranks  of  journalism  had  taught  her 
nothing  if  it  had  not  taught  her  this ! 

Ah!  what  a  two  years!  Instead  of  enjoying 
the  brilliant  peace  of  the  land  about  her,  she  was 
thinking  of  them  now,  turning  her  eyes  inward 
to  memories  that  were  poisoning  her  life.  Two 
years  of  outward  kow-towing  to  those  who  had 
once  kow-towed  to  her,  of  being  cut  and  ignored 
by  people  who  when  she  was  heiress  to  great 
estates  and  an  ancient  name  would  have  petted  and 
fawned  upon  her,  had  not  the  natural  haughtiness 
of  her  nature  rebuffed  them.  They  remembered 
those  rebuffs  when  the  tide  of  her  family's  pro- 


6  Wild  Honey 

sperity  turned,  and  the  great  law  case  that  had 
dragged  on  wearily  for  many  months  came  to  an 
end  with  the  verdict  that  disinherited  her  father 
and  gave  to  an  Australian  cad  all  that  Vivienne 
had  been  taught  from  her  birth  to  consider  irre- 
fragably  hers.  Well  had  her  haughtiness  been 
remembered  against  her  in  that  hour!  It  seemed 
as  though  all  fashionable  society  had  been  poised 
expectant,  stones  and  javelins  in  hand,  waiting 
for  the  fall  of  the  house  of  Giffard-Carlton.  Sir 
Gerald,  her  gentle,  chivalrous  father,  had  not  long 
survived  the  loss  of  his  title  and  position,  but 
Vivienne  and  her  mother  of  the  same  spirit,  proud 
and  defiant  in  adversity,  bore  the  brunt  of  society's 
malignant  glee  with  unbowed  heads,  contempt- 
uously refusing  the  charity  of  the  usurper,  and 
the  humiliating  favours  of  so-called  friends.  They 
were  obliged  to  step  down  from  their  high  places, 
but  they  did  it  with  dignity,  and  might  with 
dignity  have  retired  into  obscurity  and  been 
forgotten  by  society,  like  many  another  before 
them,  but  for  the  fact  that  of  all  her  gifts  the  only 
one  Vivienne  could  turn  to  account  was  the  gift 
of  description  and  charming  phrase  which  soon 
gave  her  a  place  and  a  living  in  the  world  of  jour- 
nalism. And  in  that  connection  she  came  into 
constant  touch  with  the  world  of  society.  For  she 


Wild  Honey  7 

had  been  obliged  of  course  to  begin  at  the  very 
beginning,  penny-a-lining  reports  of  balls  and  re- 
ceptions, descriptions  of  weddings  and  the  gowns 
of  debutantes.  It  was  at  such  work  that  so  much 
that  was  wounding  and  embittering  had  come  her 
way.  Many  a  cruel  insult  had  she  been  obliged 
to  swallow  for  her  guinea  a  column.  Many  an  old 
score  cherished  by  Us  nouveaux  riches  against  the 
house  of  Giffard-Carlton  had  been  paid  into  the 
account  of  the  lady  journalist!  And  the  result 
of  it  all  was  a  nature  incalculably  embittered 
and  corroded.  Though  she  was  only  twenty-two, 
Vivienne  did  not  feel  like  a  girl  any  longer,  but  she 
still  looked  like  a  girl,  and  a  very  charming  one  at 
that.  The  fact  was  one  she  meant  to  use  as  a 
weapon  in  her  reprisals  against  a  world  that  had 
mishandled  her.  Her  gift  of  writing  was  a  weapon 
that  enabled  her  to  beat  a  living  for  herself  and 
her  mother  out  of  life,  but  her  beauty  was  a  far 
more  potent  one,  and  she  meant  to  use  it  to  the 
hilt  as  a  means  of  getting  back  her  own  from 
society.  This  work  she  had  come  out  to  Africa 
to  do  for  the  Daily  Flag — a  series  of  articles  de- 
scriptive of  the  life,  inhabitants,  and  prospects  of 
Cecil  Rhodes's  country — would,  she  hoped,  prove 
to  be  a  means  to  a  very  special  end.  If  her  articles 
made  a  big  hit  she  would  not  have  to  go  back  to 


8  Wild  Honey 

describing  ball  gowns.  But  she  did  not  mean  to 
return  to  journalism  at  all  if  she  could  help  it. 
There  were  plenty  of  millionaires  in  Africa — 
and  she  had  plenty  to  give  in  exchange  for  the 
millions  of  one  of  them — youth,  beauty,  birth, 
breeding,  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  social 
world!  There  was  only  one  thing  he  must  not  ask 
of  her,  and  that  was  a  heart.  She  might  be 
tempted  to  reveal  to  him  what  she  carried  instead 
— a  husk  with  a  little  brown  dust  in  it,  like  a 
rotten  nut !  To  cry  to  him  as  Baudelaire  cried  in 
his  bitterness: 

"My  heart? — the  beasts  have  eaten  it!" 
She  had  little  fear  of  being  unable  to  gain  her 
end.  Many  men  had  proposed  to  her  since  she 
became  simple  Miss  Carlton,  but  none  of  them 
had  been  able  to  offer  enough  in  exchange  for  the 
rotten  nut.  The  man  destined  to  receive  that 
precious  gift  must  be  very  rich  indeed,  must  have 
enough  to  buy  back  what  the  world  had  robbed 
her  of — place,  and  power  to  put  her  foot  on  the 
necks  of  those  who  had  humiliated  her.  There 
were  many  such  in  Africa.  Even  during  her 
short  stay  in  Cape  Town,  she  had  met  one  who 
showed  himself  as  heartily  disposed  as  he  was 
well-equipped  to  shoulder  his  side  of  the  bargain. 
Only  for  a  foolish  and  incomprehensible  shrinking 


Wild  Honey  9 

on  her  part  at  the  last  moment,  she  would  now 
have  been  engaged  to  marry  Wolfe  Montague, 
one  o*  Johannesberg's  great  financial  kings. 

However !  She  was  to  see  him  again  in  a  month 
or  two  in  Rhodesia  and  doubtless  by  that  time 
she  would  be  rid  of  all  foolish  prejudices.  This 
charming  coach  journey  was  one  of  the  things  that 
would  help  her  to  come  to  a  propitious  decision! 
At  the  thought,  she  gave  a  little  cynical  laugh  that 
made  her  companions  stare,  wondering  what  she 
found  in  the  scenery  to  amuse  her. 

Indeed,  nothing  less  amusing  than  this  journey 
could  be  imagined.  Day  after  day  of  weary 
crawling  across  a  landscape  that  changed  unceas- 
ingly in  outline,  though  never  in  detail.  Always 
the  undulating  grassy  slopes  dotted  with  bush, 
the  eternal  kopje  ahead,  and  the  eternal  kopje  left 
behind.  There  was  something  terrible  about  the 
brooding  loneliness,  the  eloquent  stillness,  the 
great  unending  sameness  of  it  all. 

They  had  been  travelling  for  four  nights  and 
days  and  must  continue  for  a  good  many  more  yet 
before  the  end  was  reached — sometimes  putting 
up  for  a  night  at  a  rough  wayside  hotel,  more 
often  just  outspanning  beside  a  mule  stable  during 
the  darkest  hours  and  sleeping  as  best  they  could 
in  the  cramped  cart,  with  rugs  and  mail-bags  as  a 


io  Wild  Honey 

common  couch.  Vivienne  had  never  imagined 
such  physical  discomfort  possible,  and  though  her 
body  was  too  strong  to  suffer  by  it,  her  mind  was 
sick,  and  her  whole  being  revolted  at  the  sordid- 
ness  of  it  all.  Sleeping  side  by  side  with  strange 
men,  and  a  common  woman,  wedged  against 
them,  listening  to  their  snores!  Wakening  in  the 
morning  to  the  intimacy  of  their  unkempt  faces! 
Eating  and  drinking  in  their  company,  listening  to 
their  eternal  talk! 

Thank  Heaven!  to-night  at  least  was  to  be 
spent  at  a  hotel.  Even  the  others  who  were 
seasoned  coach-travellers  congratulated  them- 
selves on  that  fact,  not  so  much  because  there 
would  be  beds  to  sleep  in,  as  because  an  obvious 
storm  was  brewing.  The  sunlight  had  gone 
suddenly,  and  black  clouds,  lined  with  pallid  green, 
were  grouping  in  the  west,  taking  the  form  of  a 
great  monster  with  brooding  wings.  Now  and 
then  a  quiver  of  lightning  passed  across  the  sky, 
and  a  large  drop  of  rain  splashed  down  into  the 
coach. 

On  rounding  a  kopje,  they  came  suddenly  upon 
Palapye,  the  native  village  where  the  night  was  to 
be  spent.  It  was  the  kraal  of  Khama,  king  of  the 
Bechuana  tribe — hundreds  of  straw  thatched  huts 
sprawling  up  a  hill  and  across  the  plain! 


Wild  Honey  n 

Vivienne,  since  she  left  Pretoria,  had  seen  many 
such  "hotels"  as  the  one  by  which  the  coach  now 
drew  up:  a  square  wattle-and-daub  affair  with 
a  number  of  smaller  huts  scattered  around  it. 
Painfully  she  clambered  down,  and  with  the 
others  followed  the  worn  woman  who  kept  the 
place  to  one  of  these  small  huts  which  were 
the  guest  rooms.  For  once  there  were  enough  to 
go  round,  and  no  one  was  obliged  to  share.  That 
was  something  to  be  thankful  for  in  an  odious 
world ! 

After  she  had  washed  some  of  the  dust  from  her 
face  and  hands  and  removed  a  great  deal  more  from 
her  dark  curly  hair,  which  she  wore  boy-fashion — 
short,  and  parted  on  one  side — Vivienne  went  and 
sat  by  her  hut  door  to  get  a  little  air.  The  storm 
had  not  yet  broken,  and  with  the  thermometer  at 
anything  over  a  hundred,  the  heat  was  almost 
unbearable.  Immediately,  she  became  aware  of 
another  woman,  sitting  in  the  doorway  of  a 
hut  opposite — a  stone-still  woman,  whose  face, 
shadowed  by  a  dark  print  sunbonnet  was  pallid 
as  a  bone,  with  sunken  eyes  staring  absorbedly 
before  her  into  nothingness.  In  the  listless  hands 
hanging  over  her  knees,  she  held  a  child's  little 
torn  shabby  straw  hat. 

After  one  glance,  Vivienne  in  spite  of  the  heat 


12  Wild  Honey 

felt  a  shiver  creep  over  her,  and  presently  in  the 
silence,  knowledge  came  to  her  that  she  was  in 
the  presence  of  tragedy.  Something  terrible  was 
going  on  behind  those  fixed,  absorbed  eyes,  some 
sorrow  too  deep  for  words  was  brooding  with 
bowed  head  in  the  mind  of  that  silent  watcher. 
The  girl  felt  the  heart  quiver  in  her  breast — that 
heart  she  supposed  the  beasts  had  eaten!  And 
she  longed  to  put  out  a  hand  or  speak  a  word 
of  comfort  to  the  woman.  But  she  had  lost  the 
habit  of  saying  sympathetic  things  and  it  is  one 
that  cannot  be  regained  in  a  moment.  The  best 
she  could  do  was  to  quietly  withdraw  from  the 
presence  of  grief,  and  stay  in  the  back  of  her  hut 
until  the  hotel-woman  came  to  call  her  for  dinner. 

In  the  square  hut,  the  other  passengers  were 
gathered  round  the  usual  meal:  goat  chops, 
potatoes,  a  steaming  dish  of  green  mealies  boiled 
on  the  cob.  Vivienne  took  her  place  with  her 
habitual  aloof  composure,  paying  little  attention 
to  the  general  conversation  until  a  question 
addressed  by  the  barmaid  to  the  hotel-keeper 
roused  her  interest. 

"In  the  name  of  goodness,  what's  wrong  with 
that  woman  I  saw  sitting  inside  one  of  the  huts?" 

The  hotel-keeper  made  a  hopeless  gesture  with 
her  shoulders. 


Wild  Honey  13 

"Ach!  Don't  ask  me,  it's  too  awful!  Her 
kindt  is  lost  in  the  bush. " 

"My  God!"  said  the  Kimberley  man  abruptly, 
and  his  mealie  cob  fell  into  his  plate. 

"Yes,"  continued  the  woman.  "Only  three 
and  a  half  years  old,  and  one  minute  playing 
round  the  waggon  in  the  sight  of  her  pa  and  ma, 
and  the  next  minute  .  .  .  gone!  That  was  four 
days  ago,  and  they  never  seen  her  since."  She 
added  in  a  low  voice,  "Nor  never  will!" 

"But  what  happened?"  stammered  Vivienne 
startled  out  of  her  reserve. 

"Goodness  knows,  Miss.  .  .  .  She  just  wan- 
dered out  of  sight  behind  a  bush,  I  suppose,  and 
then — all  bushes  look  alike!  You  can  get  lost  in 
three  minutes  on  the  veld.  Just  think  of  that 
arme  kind  tumbling  along,  falling,  and  sobbing, 
and  wondering  why  her  ma  didn't  come.  And 
they  hunting  like  mad  things  for  her!  The  father's 
gone  cracked  as  a  Hottentot,  and  still  goes  on 
hunting ;  but  she  can't  stand  on  her  feet  any  more, 
and  they  brought  her  in  here  to-day  for  me  to 
mind." 

Vivienne  thought  it  the  most  appalling  thing  she 
had  ever  heard.  Her  soul  was  sick  within  her. 
She  could  eat  nothing.  She  would  have  left  the 
hut,  but  the  storm  had  broken  with  a  roar  and 


14  Wild  Honey 

a  flash,  and  outside  the  rain  was  swishing  down. 
She  was  obliged  to  sit  still  and  hear  more  of  this 
story  which  paralysed  her  with  terror  and  pity. 
A  love  of  little  children  is  a  very  inconvenient 
possession  for  a  woman  who  means  to  beat  the 
world  at  its  own  heartless  game! 

"They  found  the  kid's  hat  next  day,  more  than 
twenty  miles  from  where  they  lost  her.  Think 
of  it!  A  child  of  that  age  wandering  twenty 
miles!" 

"She  ran  of  course,"  said  the  light-eyed  man 
briefly.  "They  always  run. " 

"Or  perhaps  .  .  .  you  never  know  ...  a 
lion " 

"Oh,  don't!11  Vivienne  cried  out  suddenly,  and 
put  her  hand  over  her  eyes.  The  others  stared 
at  her  moodily,  and  the  subject  dropped.  But 
presently  the  Kimberley  man  asked  the  Colonial 
if  he  had  ever  heard  of  the  fellow  who  was  lost 
from  the  Pioneer  Column? 

"Ya!"  said  the  Colonial.  "Seen  him  often  in 
Buluwayo.  He's  got  a  queer  look  in  his  eye  and 
I  don't  wonder.  Forty  days  before  he  found  the 
Column  again — long  after  they  had  given  him  up. 
And  he  could  never  tell  a  thing  he  did  in  those 
forty  days. " 

"They  never  can.     A  fellow   I   knew  in   the 


Wild  Honey  15 

B.B.P.  got  lost  out  from  Tuli  one  time.  And  when 
they  found  him  again,  all  his  front  teeth  were 
gone.  He  couldn't  remember  how  it  happened. 
But  of  course  it  was  lying  on  the  ground  gnawing 
roots  did  it." 

The  barmaid  leaned  on  her  elbows,  eagerly 
interested;  but  Vivienne,  white-lipped,  listened 
because  she  must. 

"The  great  thing  is  not  to  lose  your  head," 
said  the  Kimberley  man,  pleasantly  conversa- 
tional. "I've  known  lots  of  fellows  who've  been 
lost,  and  they  all  agree  that  the  first  instinct  when 
you  realise  you're  lost  is  to  start  running.  Just 
run  and  run  till  you  drop.  Then  the  madness  gets 
you,  and  you  begin  to  tear  off  your  clothes  and 
pitch  them  in  every  direction  as  you  run.  Nearly 
every  fellow  ever  found  after  being  lost  is  stark 
naked — begging  your  pardon,  Miss, "  he  added  as 
his  eye  fell  upon  Vivienne.  She  took  no  notice. 
The  rain  had  stopped,  and  she  fled  before  she 
should  hear  more  horrors. 

But  that  night  she  could  not  sleep  for  thinking 
of  the  lost  little  child,  and  its  desolate  mother. 
The  storm  commenced  again,  and  raged  round 
the  hut.  Lightning  streaked  through  the  canvas 
windows  and  rain  lashed  the  earth.  She  was  still 
wide-eyed  on  a  tear-wet  pillow  when  the  hotel- 


16  Wild  Honey 

keeper  banged  the  door  to  say  that  the  coach 
would  start  in  twenty  minutes. 

The  first  thing  she  noticed  as  they  clambered 
to  their  places  was  that  the  light-eyed  man  was 
missing.  She  was  far  too  distant  to  make  any 
remark,  but  the  others  with  a  kind  of  road-fellow- 
ship that  surprised  her  refused  to  let  the  coach 
start  until  some  explanation  was  forthcoming. 
The  driver,  a  ferocious  looking  half-caste,  scowled 
at  them. 

"Ach!  He's  gone  off  on  some  business  of  his 
own  if  you  want  to  know  .  .  .  and  coming  on  by 
de  next  coach.  Now  will  you  stop  wasting  de 
Company's  time  and  let  me  drive  my  mules?" 

So  on  they  went  through  the  fresh  dawn.  The 
rain-washed  land  gave  up  a  delicious  perfume  of 
drenched  leaves  and  growing  things,  and  a  scent 
of  mimosa  blew  like  a  caress  against  the  cheeks 
of  the  weary  travellers.  The  sky  was  a  bride  in 
shroudy  veils  of  pale  pink  that  warmed  to  rose, 
until  the  great  spiked  sun  shot  up  from  behind  the 
horizon,  and  took  her  in  a  glittering  embrace. 
Then  brazen  day  was  on  them  once  more. 

They  slept  in  the  coach  that  night,  and  got  little 
ease  of  it.  All  were  thankful  enough  when  next 
mid-day  found  them  outspanned  for  an  hour  or 
two  beside  a  mule  stable.  The  driver  made  a 


Wild  Honey  17 

fire,  and  the  passengers  unpacked  their  baskets. 
Vivienne  was  sick  to  death  of  tinned  food,  but  glad 
to  accept  a  cup  of  tea  made  in  the  kettle.  After- 
wards she  strolled  away  to  an  open  pool  not  far 
off,  while  the  others  snatched  the  chance  of  an 
hour's  sleep  in  the  shadow  of  the  stable. 

The  little  pool  or  "  pan  "  of  water  lay  glittering  in 
the  sunshine  and  she  sat  beside  it  under  a  tree 
shaped  like  a  candelabra  with  great  scarlet  and 
yellow  flowers  rising  in  flames  from  its  branches. 
She  was  too  careful  of  her  complexion  to  attempt 
to  wash  in  such  torrid  heat,  but  she  did  not 
mind  her  hands  getting  slightly  sunburnt  for  the 
pleasure  of  laving  them  in  the  tepid  water.  Pre- 
sently a  charming  little  creature  of  the  squirrel 
tribe  came  out  of  a  bush  and  looked  at  her  with 
bright  eyes.  She  took  a  pellet  of  chocolate  from 
inside  her  camera  case  and  held  it  out  invitingly, 
but  the  tiny  creature  backed  a  little,  then  sat  up 
on  its  hind  legs  and  cocked  its  head  at  her.  She 
took  out  her  camera  and  tried  to  snap  it,  but  it 
ran  again  just  at  the  critical  moment.  The  same 
thing  happened  two  or  three  times,  until  she  got  a 
good  picture.  Then  she  tried  once  more  to  beguile 
it  with  the  chocolate.  But  whenever  she  got  close, 
it  bounded  away.  At  last,  she  gave  up,  and  was 
suddenly  astonished  to  find  how  far  she  had  come 


i8  Wild  Honey 

from  her  pool.  •  Glittering  there  through  the  trees 
it  appeared  to  be  quite  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away. 
Yet  that  seemed  scarcely  possible. 

"How  silly  of  me!"  she  murmured.  "This  is 
just  the  way  people  get  lost  I  expect, "  and  at  the 
thought  she  noticed  a  distinct  inclination  in  her 
feet  to  hurry,  but  did  not  permit  them  any  such 
foolishness. 

"Don't  be  silly,"  she  repeated  to  herself. 
"What  are  you  afraid  of?  There  is  the  pool 
straight  in  front  of  you,  and  as  soon  as  you  reach 
it  you  will  see  the  coach. " 

So  she  forced  herself  to  walk  calmly,  and  all  the 
time  she  marvelled  at  the  distance  she  had  come 
just  in  those  few  little  short  runs  after  the  squirrel. 
And  when  she  got  to  the  pool  there  was  no  sign 
of  the  coach! 

"This  is  too  fantastic!"  she  exclaimed,  and 
laughed  aloud.  But  her  laugh  had  such  a  strange 
sound  that  she  thought  it  was  some  one  else's 
and  turned  round  violently  to  see  who  was  there. 
Then  she  drew  nearer  the  pool,  and  saw  that  the 
tree  growing  by  it  was  a  smaller  one  than  the  one 
she  had  sat  under,  and  had  fewer  flowers.  At  last 
she  realised  it  was  a  different  pool.  But  there 
was  no  other  in  sight!  Her  heart  came  up  into 
her  throat. 


Wild  Honey  19 

"I  must  go  back  the  way  I  came,"  she  told 
herself  steadily.  "When  I  get  to  where  I  first  saw 
this  pool  I  shall  not  be  far  off  the  original  one.  It 
was  probably  behind  my  back  all  the  time,  and 
if  I  had  turned  round  I  should  have  seen  it!" 

So  with  her  nerves  well  in  hand  she  began  to 
walk  back  the  way  she  had  come.  She  could  not 
keep  quite  straight,  on  account  of  the  trees  dotted 
about  everywhere,  each  the  exact  image  of  the 
other,  and  she  kept  turning  round  because  for 
some  reason  she  could  not  bear  to  lose  sight  of  one 
pool  before  she  regained  the  other.  Suddenly  far 
off  she  spied  the  gleam  of  water  through  trees, 
and  at  once  she  frankly  hurried,  telling  herself 
she  had  been  away  long  enough  from  the  coach 
and  that  the  driver  would  be  waiting  to  start. 
Her  last  few  steps  were  very  swift.  She  was 
breathing  quite  heavily  when  she  reached  the  pool 
and  glanced  round  keenly  for  the  coach.  It  was 
gone!  What  was  more  the  stable  was  gone  too! 
She  gave  a  wild  cry.  Her  knees  weakened  under 
her  and  she  found  herself  sitting  down. 

Presently  regaining  her  courage  she  got  up  and 
looked  about  her  critically.  It  was  then  she  saw 
that  there  was  no  candelabra  tree  by  this  pool. 
That  shook  her  a  little. 

"Better  call  out,"  was  her  next  thought,  and  she 


2O  Wild  Honey 

followed  it  up  by  a  shout  that  sounded  absurdly 
like  a  baby  crying  from  a  pin-prick.  She  was 
reminded  of  the  little  lost  child,  and  began  to 
tremble  in  spite  of  herself.  "I'll  get  out  into  the 
open,"  she  thought.  "There  are  too  many  trees 
here.  They  shut  in  my  voice. " 

She  moved  a  little  way  off  and  called.  Then 
again  she  walked  on  and  called.  Mechanically  she 
found  herself  moving  along,  calling  as  she  went. 
Her  voice  seemed  to  grow  weaker  every  moment, 
but  her  steps  grew  quicker.  At  last,  she  began  to 
run. 

Something  tickled  her  face,  and  lazily,  for  she 
was  very  tired,  and  there  was  a  rushing  noise  in 
her  ears,  she  put  up  her  hand  to  brush  the  irri- 
tation away.  Then  her  hand  tickled  too.  She 
held  it  before  her  eyes  and  saw  that  it  was  covered 
with  little  black  ants.  At  that,  her  aversion  to 
creeping  things  galvanised  her  into  movement,  and 
she  sprang  up,  frantically  brushing  scores  of  ants 
from  her  face  and  hands.  It  was  then  she  realised 
that  she  had  been  lying  face  downwards  on  the 
ground.  She  must  have  fallen,  and  lain  where  she 
fell.  How  long  ago  that  was  she  had  no  idea,  but 
the  sun  was  very  low.  She  could  see  it  in  the 
reddened  skies  just  behind  some  trees. 

The  next  discovery  she  made  was  a  still  stranger 


Wild  Honey  21 

one.  When  she  set  out  on  her  journey  she  had 
been  dressed  in  a  suit  of  khaki-coloured  duck, 
made  in  three  pieces;  a  Norfolk  coat,  a  short  deer- 
stalker skirt  that  could  be  unhooked  and  taken 
off  like  a  modern  riding-habit,  and,  underneath, 
a  serviceable  pair  of  riding-breeches  of  the  same 
material.  These  were  met  at  the  knees  by  leather 
gaiters.  Stout  brown  shoes,  and  a  dark  silk  shirt 
completed  the  suit,  the  whole  having  been  designed 
and  beautifully  made  by  a  well-known  man  in 
Bond  Street;  for  with  her  mental  eyes  fixed  on 
millionaires,  Miss  Carlton  had  not  thought  it  wise 
to  be  economical  in  the  direction  of  clothes.  She 
now  discovered  herself  to  be  attired  only  in  the  silk 
shirt  and  riding-breeches.  Her  boots  and  gaiters 
were  scratched  and  worn  almost  beyond  recog- 
nition ;  her  hat,  coat,  skirt,  and  camera  were  gone. 
She  had  absolutely  no  idea  how  she  had  lost  them, 
but  some  faint  notion  of  searching  for  them  made 
her  look  in  the  direction  of  the  sun  to  see  how  long 
it  would  be  before  she  was  left  in  the  dark.  Then 
she  observed  another  amazing  thing.  Instead  of 
disappearing  the  sun  had  actually  risen  above  the 
trees,  and  was  advancing  into  the  sky.  The  world 
was  full  of  surprises.  It  was  morning! 

She  had  spent  a  night  alone  on  the  veld  then! 
It  seemed  strange  that  she  could  remember  nothing 


22  Wild  Honey 

about  this,  but  somehow  the  fact  did  not  worry  her 
very  much.  She  felt  indeed  extraordinarily  calm 
and  careless.  A  sense  of  lightness  and  freedom 
pervaded  her.  She  would  not  have  minded  any- 
thing if  only  she  had  not  been  so  horribly  tired. 
Also  hungry  and  thirsty. 

She  began  to  saunter  forward  in  a  casual  sort 
of  way,  and  presently  noticed  that  the  rushing 
sound  grew  louder,  and  was  not  in  her  head  at  all, 
but  in  the  air.  There  was  a  river  close  at  hand, 
and  she  was  making  straight  for  it!  This  pleased 
her  greatly,  and  when  she  came  in  sight  of  it  she 
laughed  joyously.  It  was  fringed  with  trees,  thick 
and  tall,  and  the  banks  were  high,  but  she  had 
no  difficulty  in  clambering  down  into  the  river- 
bed which  was  wide  as  Piccadilly  Circus,  and 
mostly  composed  of  pure  white  sand  and  flat 
rocks.  The  stream  in  the  middle  which  made  so 
much  noise  was  comparatively  shallow  and  she 
could  easily  have  forded  it.  What  she  did,  how- 
ever, was  to  lie  down  flat  beside  it  and  drink  long 
and  deep.  At  the  same  time,  she  experienced  the 
sensation  of  having  performed  this  act  before. 

"  But  one  always  has  that  feeling  every  time  one 
does  anything  new!"  she  thought.  Her  face 
reflected  in  the  water  looked  very  dark,  and  her 
hands  were  burnt  almost  black — covered  with 


Wild  Honey  23 

scratches  too.  That  did  not  trouble  her  much. 
Her  eye  was  ranging  round  the  trees  for  something 
to  eat.  In  a  minute,  she  spied  something  yellow 
that  might  be  fruit.  While  she  was  climbing  up 
amongst  the  rough  branches  and  foliage,  adding 
considerably  to  her  stock  of  scratches,  she  again 
had  the  sensation  of  having  done  this  thing  before. 
They  were  only  sour  plums,  and  she  didn't  care 
much  for  sour  things,  but  the  peel  was  not  bad. 
Later  she  found  some  wild  apricots.  There  were 
also  little  flower  bulbs  sticking  above  the  ground, 
with  rushes  attached  to  them,  and  of  these  she 
pulled  a  number.  Some  that  had  an  oniony  flav- 
our she  discarded,  but  others  tasted  as  she  knew 
they  would,  just  like  nuts.  Munching  placidly, 
she  wandered  on  her  way.  The  rushing  sound  of 
the  river  was  pleasant  company. 

As  she  sauntered  along,  her  glance  struck  some- 
thing on  the  ground  that  was  certainly  foreign  to 
the  surroundings — nothing  less  than  the  remains  of 
a  large  canvas  sack.  Having  slept  for  many  nights 
upon  mail-bags,  she  was  in  a  position  to  recognise  one 
when  she  saw  it,  besides,  round  this  one  were  scat- 
tered the  remains  of  many  letters,  torn,  ant-eaten, 
and  rotted  by  rain.  Musingly,  she  lifted  up  the 
tattered  canvas  and  examined  it.  There  were  sharp 
teeth  marks  on  it,  and  it  had  been  ripped  savagely 


24  Wild  Honey 

open  from  end  to  end.  Yet,  coyly  hiding  in  a  tarry 
fold,  there  remained  some  residue  of  what  had  evi- 
dently once  been  a  full  bag  of  mail — on  Her  Ma- 
jesty's Service — a  stamped  and  addressed  letter,  and 
a  newspaper.  The  ants  had  chewed  both  a  little, 
but  the  canvas  had  kept  them  in  good  condition. 
Vivienne  examined  them  with  interest,  and  it 
being  at  this  time  full  noon,  the  pleasant  idea 
occurred  to  her  of  having  a  little  rest,  and  a  little 
read.  Accordingly  she  seated  herself  and  opened 
the  newspaper. 

It  was  the  Buluwayo  Chronicle  dated  October 
the  2 1st  (the  date  she  had  landed  in  Cape  Town) 
and  addressed  to  a  lady  in  Devonshire  who  would 
never  now  receive  it.  The  contents  did  not 
interest  Vivienne.  The  local  news  of  a  town  she 
had  never  seen  would  scarcely  be  likely  to  do  so. 
She  threw  it  aside  and  took  up  the  letter.  For 
a  moment  she  looked  at  the  blurred  address: 

GEORGE  BRAIN,  ESQR., 
MINING  HOTEL, 
BEACONSFIELD, 
DIAMOND  FIELDS.    (BARKLY  WEST.) 

Then  as  if  it  were  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world  to  open  other  people's  letters,  she  slipped 
her  fingers  under  the  flap  of  the  envelope,  pulled 


Wild  Honey  25 

it  off  and  threw  it  away.     Unfolding  the  letter, 
she  read  it  from  beginning  to  end. 

"  ONDER-KOPPIES  "    NEAR  BULUWAYO. 

Oct.  2Oth,  19 — 
Dear  George, 

As  soon  as  you  get  this,  raise  £500  on  the  nail, 
and  wire  it  up.  I  know  money  is  tight,  but  get 
that  pony  from  somewhere  and  your  pile  is  made. 
Hunt  and  I  have  struck  it  rich.  As  a  farming 
partner  Hunt  is  no  more  good  than  a  dead  dog,  but 
he  knows  the  surveying  and  mineralogy  business 
like  his  A.  B.  C.  On  the  Rand,  they  used  to  call 
him  the  fellow  with  a  nose  for  reef,  and  only  he's 
lazy  as  the  devil  he'd  be  rich  as  Hades  by  now. 
Anyway  prowling  round  here  he  has  nosed  out  a 
plum  .  .  .  the  land  adjoining  ours  is  lousy  with 
gold.  Unfortunately  the  whole  6000  acres  belong 
to  de  Windt — you  know — the  hunter  and  explorer 
fellow,  who  got  this  farm  for  his  share  in  the 
Matabeleland  row.  However  he's  never  done  any- 
thing with  it  except  stick  up  a  hut,  and  it's  com- 
mon knowledge  here  that  he'll  take  what  he  can 
get  for  his  land,  for  since  the  railway  is  on  its  way 
he  professes  himself  sick  of  this  country  and  is 
going  to  make  tracks  further  north.  He's  got  no 
money,  never  has,  and  will  jump  at  £500  ready 


26  Wild  Honey 

cash,  so  hustle  and  raise  it  George,  and  we'll 
keep  the  loot  in  the  family.  Hunt  and  I  haven't 
a  rap  between  us,  and  no  means  of  getting  any 
except  by  selling  our  land,  which  would  look 
fishy  to  de  Windt  who  is  no  fool.  You  can  trust 
me  there's  no  mistake.  Hunt  is  too  wise  a  bird  for 
that.  But  if  you've  any  doubts,  come  up  your- 
self and  bring  the  best  surveyor  on  the  Fields. 
You'll  find  that  everything  is  O.  K.  Only  it 
must  be  done  sharp, — for  de  Windt  will  be  up 
here  on  his  way  North  about  end  November. 
Get  busy.  Zachabona  ! 

BROTHER  FRANK. 

"Charming  fellow,  brother  Frank!"  said  Miss 
Carlton  thoughtfully,  and  having  no  pocket, 
thrust  the  letter  into  the  front  of  her  silk  shirt. 
Afterwards  she  sat  shuffling  the  rags  of  paper  and 
canvas  with  the  toe  of  her  shoe,  wondering  how 
they  had  come  to  this  place.  The  conclusion  was 
that  the  bag  must  have  been  dropped  from  the 
down-country  coach,  though  clearly  not  at  this 
spot,  for  there  was  no  road.  Probably  some 
hungry  animal  had  carried  it  off  and  torn  it  open 
to  see  what  it  contained.  Possibly  the  coach 
road  was  not  far  off,  and  by  continuing  ahead  she 
would  find  it.  But  she  felt  a  curious  indifference 


Wild  Honey  27 

on  the  subject.  The  heat  had  filled  her  with  a 
delightful  drowsiness,  and  she  decided  to  rest  a 
little  longer.  With  her  back  against  a  tree  she 
stared  dreamily  at  the  lovely  slope  of  country  over 
which  the  sunshine  appeared  to  be  passing  in 
ripples  making  the  long  pale  grass  sway  in  waves, 
though  not  a  breath  of  wind  stirred  the  air. 
Everything  seemed  wrapped  in  a  pleasant  golden 
haze,  but  whether  the  haze  was  in  her  mind  or 
on  the  golden  silent  land  about  her  she  could  not 
have  told.  At  last  her  eyes  gradually  closed  and 
she  slept. 


When  she  awoke  the  plain  was  still  simmering 
under  the  sun  waves,  and  leaves  and  grass  crackled 
and  stirred  as  before  in  the  windless  air.  All 
was  unchanged,  except  that  at  the  top  of  the  slope 
half  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  a  dozen  or  more 
buck  were  peacefully  grazing  among  the  pale 
long  grass.  Often  from  the  coach  Vivienne  had 
seen  such  herds,  and  she  knew  the  great  dark 
creatures,  with  patches  of  white  gleaming  under 
them  as  they  moved,  to  be  sable  antelope.  Lazily 
she  sat  watching  their  slow  graceful  movements, 
as  they  fed,  never  dreaming  of  the  presence  of  a 
human  being,  though  sometimes  one  or  another 


28  Wild  Honey 

of  them  would  raise  its  head  and  for  a  moment 
seem  to  listen. 

Then  in  an  instant  with  the  flash  and  crack  of 
sudden  doom  the  scene  changed.  The  antelope 
terror-stricken,  were  bounding  across  country  and 
the  girl  leaping  to  her  feet  stood  with  eyes  dilated 
and  hand  on  heart.  A  gun  had  been  fired  and  the 
dark  body  of  one  of  the  buck  lay  shuddering  where 
a  moment  before  it  had  been  happily  grazing. 

Even  as  she  stood  staring,  the  figure  of  a  man 
came  from  behind  a  far  group  of  bush  into  the 
open — a  tall  hulking  figure,  in  sloppy  trousers 
belted  at  the  waist,  his  gun  over  his  shoulder. 
He  was  a  long  way  off,  but  he  walked  straight  as  a 
die  for  the  spot  where  the  buck  lay,  stooped  over 
it  for  a  minute,  then  wiped  something  he  held  in 
his  hand  on  the  grass  and  stuck  it  back  into  his 
belt.  Afterwards  he  tied  a  little  strip  of  white 
rag  onto  a  bush  close  by.  He  stood  for  a  while 
looking  after  the  rest  of  the  herd,  now  black  dots 
in  the  distance,  then  leisurely  started  to  walk 
back  in  the  direction  he  came.  Never  once  had 
he  looked  towards  where  Vivienne,  motionless  as 
a  statue  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees. 

As  she  watched  him,  his  figure  momentarily 
disappeared  behind  a  bush,  and  then  for  the  first 
time  immobility  passed  from  her  face  and  figure. 


Wild  Honey  29 

Panic  swept  over  her  like  a  wave.  Uttering  short 
sharp  cries,  she  began  to  run  after  the  man,  and, 
as  she  ran,  the  remembrance  came  over  her  like 
the  memory  of  some  frightful  nightmare  how  she 
had  run  like  this  before — on  and  on  and  on 
— over  rocks,  through  bush,  in  blinding  sun- 
shine and  heavy  darkness.  And  with  the  re- 
membrance came  such  terror  as  lent  wings  to  her 
feet — terror  of  losing  sight  of  this  human  crea- 
ture, and  being  left  once  more  to  the  awful 
loneliness  of  the  veld. 

In  a  few  moments  she  caught  up  to  within 
thirty  yards  of  the  man,  but  long  before  that  he 
had  turned  round  and  was  watching  her,  his  hat 
pushed  back  above  his  dark  coarse  face,  his  eyes 
full  of  astonishment. 

"Hi!  young  fellah— stop  that!" 

If  he  had  fired  off  his  gun  at  her  the  result 
could  not  have  been  more  effective.  She  drew 
up  instantly,  stopped  tearing  with  both  hands  at 
the  collar  of  her  shirt,  and  stood  staring  into  his 
eyes,  panting  heavily.  He  ran  a  shrewd  glance 
over  her. 

"Where'd  you  spring  from?"  he  demanded. 
She  continued  to  stare  at  him.  His  voice  which 
was  common  and  brutal  troubled  her,  and  she 
did  not  like  his  face. 


30  Wild  Honey 

"Crazy!"  he  mused,  looking  at  her  keenly 
through  half -closed  eyes.  "I'm  not  sure  it 
wouldn't  be  a  good  thing  to  give  you  a  crack  on 
the  cocoa-nut  and  leave  you  to  the  asvogels.  You'll 
only  be  a  darned  nuisance. " 

She  understood  very  well  what  he  was  saying, 
but  somehow  it  did  not  terrify  her.  Nothing 
terrified  her  except  the  thought  of  being  left  alone. 
He  tried  her  with  another  question. 

"How  long  you  been  lost?" 

She  waved  her  hand  towards  the  trees  that 
fringed  the  river  bank.  Why  she  did  this  she 
had  not  the  faintest  idea. 

"AchI"  he  exclaimed  impatiently,  and  turned 
on  his  heel.  "Come  on  to  my  waggons,  you 
fool." 

Without  any  indignation  at  his  way  of  address- 
ing her,  she  fell  into  step  beside  him.  A  few  paces 
farther  on,  two  natives  bounded  into  sight,  coming 
towards  the  man  as  though  searching  for  him. 
He  addressed  them  in  Kaffir,  pointing  backwards 
to  where  he  had  left  the  buck.  They  gazed  at 
Vivienne  with  impassive  faces.  Both  parties 
continued  on  their  way. 

At  last  Vivienne's  eyes  fell  once  more  upon  the 
broad  dusty  road,  and  a  hundred  yards  or  so  from 
it  two  transport  waggons  were  drawn  up  and  out- 


Wild  Honey  31 

spanned.  At  the  sight  of  them,  and  the  smoulder- 
ing fires,  and  a  dog  that  jumped  up  barking,  and 
the  smell  of  newly-baked  bread,  something  in  the 
girl's  breast  gave  a  great  throb,  and  she  had  speech. 

"Since  yesterday,"  she  said,  answering  the 
question  the  man  had  asked  her  some  twenty 
minutes  past. 

"Oh!  you've  found  your  tongue  have  you," 
said  he.  "Since  yesterday  what?" 

"Lost." 

"Lost  since  yesterday?"  he  stared  at  her 
wonderingly.  "Oh!  you're  mad,  right  enough, 
young  fellah.  The  sun's  done  your  business  for 
you.  Here!  come  and  eat. " 

She  was  not  too  mad  to  understand  that  at  any 
rate.  There  were  some  loaves  of  newly-made 
dough  bread  lying  on  a  box,  each  broken  in  two 
to  let  the  steam  out.  Several  other  boxes  were 
scattered  about  and  the  man  motioning  her  to  one 
handed  her  half  a  loaf.  She  took  it  eagerly,  and 
began  to  eat  at  once,  almost  wolfishly.  When  she 
had  finished  she  looked  longingly  at  the  other 
loaves. 

"No,  you  don't,"  said  the  man,  "you've  had 
enough  for  one  go. "  He  had  called  out  an  order 
to  some  young  native  boys  squatting  by  the  fire, 
and  they  now  set  a  tin  kettle  full  of  coffee  and  two 


32  Wild  Honey 

beakers  before  him.  He  handed  her  one  of  the 
beakers  full  of  hot  black  liquid  and  she  drank  even 
to  the  last  drop. 

"Now,"  said  he,  speaking  roughly  and  emphati- 
cally as  if  to  a  child  with  no  intelligence.  "What 
you  want  is  sleep.  Go  and  get  up  into  that 
waggon  tent,  and  sleep,  do  you  understand?  No 
use  turning  in  on  the  ground  for  we're  going  to 
trek  in  an  hour.  Get  off  with  you  now,  and  sleep 
till  you  burst. "  His  tone  was  the  tone  of  a  born 
bully,  but  the  girl  did  not  resent  it.  She  climbed 
on  to  the  waggon-brake  as  easily  as  if  she  had 
been  doing  so  all  her  life.  A  rude,  but  not  unclean 
mattress  surged  up  to  meet  her,  and  she  sank  into 
it  and  slept. 


The  waggon  was  moving  when  she  awoke,  a 
delicious  slow  movement  which  softly  swung 
the  mattress  suspended  on  a  wooden  frame  across 
the  tent,  from  side  to  side,  and  was  accompanied 
by  strainings  and  rumblings,  musical  creakings  as 
of  a  ship  at  sea,  but  without  any  of  the  malaise 
incidental  to  ships,  for  the  level  of  the  mattress 
was  always  maintained.  When  the  wheels  jolted 
over  stones,  Vivienne  got  no  more  discomfort  of  it 
than  a  bird  snug  in  its  nest.  From  the  horseshoe 


Wild  Honey  33 

opening  of  the  tent,  she  could  see  a  light  haze  of 
dust  rising  perpetually  from  under  the  wheels,  and 
through  it,  the  landscape  rolling  out  and  retreat- 
ing in  changing  panorama.  Everything  was  won- 
derfully peaceful.  Sometimes  she  could  hear  far 
ahead  the  crack  of  a  whip,  and  a  long-drawn- 
out  native  cry;  then  the  waggon  would  lumber 
more  hurriedly  through  the  dust  for  a  while, 
only  to  return  to  the  slow  even  movement  of 
serenely  pacing  oxen. 

Lying  idly  against  her  pillow,  she  watched  the 
sun  fall  swiftly  behind  a  kop,  and  the  whole 
land  become  suffused  with  orange-coloured  light. 
Then  the  silver-green  of  bush  and  tree  turned 
black  and  kopjes  were  etched  in  India  ink  against 
the  tinted  skies. 

Her  eyes  wandered  round  the  tent  in  which  she 
was  lying.  There  was  hardly  anything  in  it  ex- 
cept the  bed,  but  from  the  hoops  supporting 
the  canvas  various  odds  and  ends  of  things  were 
hanging;  a  lantern,  a  cheap  clock,  a  small  tin- 
bound  square  of  mirror,  several  coarse  canvas 
bags,  evidently  stuffed  with  clothes. 

"I  suppose  they  belong  to  the  man  who  found 
me,"  she  thought,  and  instantly  recalled  the 
coarse  thick-lipped  face,  the  peculiar  sneering 
way  his  mouth  drew  up  at  one  side  under  the 


34  Wild  Honey 

ragged  dark  moustache,  the  sharp  half-closed 
eyes.  She  recalled  too  his  brutal  way  of  speaking 
to  her.  No  one  had  ever  spoken  to  Vivienne 
Carlton  in  such  a  fashion,  and  it  had  impressed 
itself  on  her  memory.  In  fact,  it  was  the  only 
thing  that  stood  out  since  she  knew  she  had  lost 
herself  by  the  pool.  The  rest  was  darkness. 

"Hi!     Young  fellah!'1 

Her  memory  began  from  those  words!  But 
why  "young  fellah?"  She  had  understanding 
now  to  marvel  at  such  an  address.  Was  it  because 
of  her  short  hair?  The  idea  inspired  her  to  kneel 
up  on  the  bed  and  reach  for  the  tin-backed  mirror. 
She  peeped  in  and,  at  the  sight  she  met  there, 
almost  reeled  backwards  out  of  the  waggon.  A 
face  which  under  dirt  and  tan  was  darker  than  a 
Hindoo's,  scratched '  cheeks,  sunken  eyes,  lips 
that  were  dried  and  cracked.  A  mop  of  short 
curly  hair  full  of  dust  and  bits  of  grass  and  dried 
leaves !  A  neck  that  was  burnt  almost  black  right 
down  to  where  it  met  the  ragged  shirt  collar. 
She  could  not  even  be  sure  that  the  eyes  were  her 
own,  so  deep  were  they  in  her  head. 

The  shock  sent  her  back  to  her  pillow,  and  she 
lay  there  a  long  time  very  still.  But  her  mind 
was  clear  enough  now  to  realise  why  the  man 
had  mistaken  her  for  a  "young  fellow. "  She  was 


Wild  Honey  35 

a  tall,  athletic  girl  whose  love  of  outdoor  exercises 
had  conformed  her  figure  to  a  boyish  flexibility 
and  litheness  rather  than  feminine  plumpness. 
Moreover,  such  superfluous  flesh  as  she  had  once 
possessed  was  now  gone.  The  veld  had  turned 
her  into  a  lanky,  dirty,  hungry -looking  lout  of  a 
boy.  She  could  not  help  laughing,  but  a  moment 
later  her  face  grew  stern  to  consternation.  The 
feeling  of  safety  engendered  by  being  once  more 
in  touch  with  people  was  dispersing  the  terror  of 
the  veld,  but  another  horror  now  took  its  place! 
Her  beauty  was  gone!  The  one  great  wand  she 
possessed,  the  pivot  round  which  all  her  plans 
revolved.  It  would  take  months  to  get  back  her 
complexion  and  contours — if  she  ever  got  them 
back! 

She  stared  at   her  dark  hands,  blistered   and 
torn,  with  black  rims  to  them. 

"How  awful  if  this  ever  gets  known!" 
So  far,  the  world  with  all  its  cruelty  and  malice 
had  never  been  able  to  touch  her  spotless  repu- 
tation, or  Mrs.  Grundy  heave  a  brick  at  her  for 
outraged  conventions.  But  now?  If  this  became 
known?  Lost  on  the  veld!  Picked  up  by  a 
strange  man,  kept  in  a  waggon,  travelling  alone 
with  him  on  the  veld!  What  tit-bits  to  be  rolled 
round  the  tongues  of  her  enemies ! 


36  Wild  Honey 

"It  must  never  be  known,"  she  whispered  to 
herself.  "This  man  must  go  on  believing  me  a 
boy.  The  whole  business  of  my  being  lost  must 
be  kept  dark,  and  I  must  get  back  to  my  world  as 
soon  as  I  can.  I  wonder  if  this  man  is  bound  for 
Rhodesia  or  going  down-country!" 

Ruefully,  she  examined  her  garments.  Her 
riding-breeches  and  gaiters,  though  dirty  and 
worn,  would  last  a  good  while  yet,  but  the  soles 
of  her  boots  were  almost  gone. 

Daylight  passed,  and  was  superseded  by  a  great 
white  moon  that  diffused  mother-of-pearl  light. 
Hour  after  hour  the  waggon  rumbled  forward,  but 
at  last  the  wheels  creaked  over  grass  and  shrub 
and  came  to  a  stop.  There  were  native  cries  and 
shouts,  the  clatter  of  falling  yokes,  the  low  moo  of 
tired  oxen.  Then  newly  lighted  fires  began  to 
crackle  and  presently  a  ravishing  odour  of  meat 
grilling  over  embers  came  stealing  into  the  waggon 
tent.  A  head  showed  at  the  opening. 

"Well!  how  d'you  feel  now,  hey?" 

"Better,  thank  you,"  she  answered  politely. 
Her  voice  was  a  contralto  and  quite  deep  enough 
to  pass  for  a  boy's. 

"Oh!  better,  thank  you,  hey?"  he  rudely  mim- 
icked. "Ready  for  a  buck  steak,  I  bet!" 

She  did  not  at  all  like  this  man's  ways  and 


Wild  Honey  37 

manners,  but  it  seemed  politic  at  this  time  to 
disguise  her  feelings.  For  one  thing,  she  was 
horribly  hungry.  For  another,  she  realised  that  it 
was  in  his  power  to  be  intensely  disagreeable  if 
she  offended  him.  Just  how  disagreeable  a  man 
with  such  a  mouth  could  be  she  did  not  care  to 
contemplate. 

"I  am  certainly  very  hungry,"  she  answered 
quietly. 

"Come  on  down,  then.  You  don't  expect  me 
to  bring  it  to  you,  do  you?" 

"Of  course  not!"  She  made  haste  to  descend, 
and  take  her  place  before  the  packing-case  on 
which  the  supper  was  laid.  She  thought  she  had 
never  tasted  anything  in  her  life  so  delicious  as 
that  chunk  of  antelope-steak,  gritty  with  cinders, 
and  flavoured  with  smoke.  At  the  end  of  twenty 
minutes  or  so,  the  man  remarked : 

"  Nothing  wrong  with  your  appetite,  I  see,  what- 
ever the  sun  has  done  to  your  kop. " 

Vivienne  did  not  know  what  a  kop  was,  but  her 
guessing  powers  were  unimpaired. 

"I'm  afraid  my  behaviour  was  rather  strange 
when  I  first  met  you,"  she  said  stiffly.  "My 
excuse  must  be  that  I  am  not  accustomed  to  being 
lost,  and  the  experience  had — er — slightly  unbal- 
anced me. " 


38  Wild  Honey 

"You  were  cracked  as  an  over-ripe  water- 
melon, "  he  sneered,  "and  are  still,  for  all  I  know. " 
He  lounged  on  his  elbow,  smoking  a  pipe  of  atro- 
cious tobacco. 

"At  any  rate  I  thank  you  for  your  hospitality, " 
said  she,  longing  to  box  his  ears  instead. 

"Pugh!  What  I  want  to  know  is  where  you 
come  from  and  whereabouts  you  left  your  party, 
hey?" 

"My  party?" 

"Yes;  the  waggons  you  got  lost  from." 

Something  inspired  her  to  leave  it  at  that,  and 
answer  quietly: 

"Our  last  stopping-place  was  Palapye. " 

"Palapye!  Why,  that's  ten  days'  trek  from 
here." 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said.  "I  was  at  Palapye  three 
days  ago — two  days  before  I  lost  myself. " 

"Look  here!  Have  you  any  idea  of  the  date 
you  got  lost  on,  hey?"  She  made  a  rapid  calcu- 
lation. 

"But  of  course,  it  was  the  twenty-first  of 
November — yesterday. ' ' 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said  grimly.  "This  is 
the  thirtieth. "  She  sat  staring  at  him,  lips  apart. 

"You  were  lost  in  the  bush  nine  days,  and  this 
is  the  tenth.  I  thought  as  much  when  I  saw  you. " 


Wild  Honey  39 

"Nine  days!"  she  muttered.  "Is  it  possi- 
ble  !" 

Nine  days, — alone  on  the  veld — forever  un- 
accounted for! — gone  out  of  her  life. 

"Yes,  nine  days,"  he  repeated  grimly.  "I 
suppose  you  got  rid  of  most  of  your  outfit— 
that's  the  usual  game.  I  wonder  you  have  on 
anything  at  all." 

She  wondered  too,  remembering  the  tales  she 
had  heard  of  lost  people  and  thanked  God  for  the 
unconscious  feminine  modesty  that  had  remained 
to  her  even  in  madness  and  panic — restraining 
her  from  that  last  horror!  A  warmth  crept  into 
her  face,  but  fortunately  through  the  darkness 
of  her  skin  the  man  could  see  nothing  though  he 
was  studying  her  keenly. 

"I  had  a  camera — and  a  hat  and  coat,"  she 
muttered,  trying  to  remember. 

"Ach!  Shut  thinking  about  it  or  you'll  go  off 
your  top  again. "  She  bit  her  lip  at  his  rude  tone, 
but  it  at  least  had  the  effect  of  bracing  her. 

"Where  were  you  bound  for,  hey?" 

"Buluwayo." 

"Oh,  indeed!  We  may  run  into  your  party 
then,  for  I'm  bound  there  too." 

She  knew  that  the  coach  from  which  she  was 
lost  must  have  reached  Buluwayo  long  ago,  even 


40  Wild  Honey 

if  they  had  delayed  a  day  or  two  looking  for  her. 
But  she  did  not  say  so.  The  hatefulness  of  the 
man  made  her  wish  to  keep  up  as  long  as  possible 
the  fiction  of  friends  close  at  hand. 

"What's  your  name?"  was  the  next  question. 
She  told  him,  "Carlton,"  and  he  repeated  it  con- 
temptuously. 

"A  beastly  swell,  of  course.  I  suppose  you  lost 
your  eye-glass  in  the  bush,  hey?  Well,  Carlton, 
my  fine  fellah,  just  you  understand  this:  If  I've 
got  to  board  and  lodge  you  from  here  to  Buluwayo 
or  until  your  fine  friends  pick  you  up,  I  shall 
expect  to  be  well  paid  for  it;  and  don't  you  for- 
get it. " 

"Of  course  you  will  be  paid,"  she  said  coldly. 
"But  I  must  ask  you  in  the  meantime  to  treat 
me  with  a  little  civility " 

He  stared  at  her  with  sullen  eyes. 

"Civility  be  bio  wed!  And  don't  you  give  me 
any  of  your  cheek,  you  young  snook,  else  you'll 
find  yourself  in  the  wrong  box.  Clear  out  now, 
I've  had  enough  of  you.  You're  welcome  to  the 
waggon  tent  as  I  never  use  it, — but  don't  you 
come  near  me  again,  except  by  special  invitation. " 

This  was  the  unpropitious  beginning  of  Miss 
Carlton's  new  adventure.  Often  during  the  next 
two  weeks  she  wondered  whether  she  would  not 


Wild  Honey  41 

have  been  wiser  to  have  stayed  in  the  bush.  The 
man  Roper,  as  she  discovered  his  name  to  be, 
was  an  insufferable  brute,  and  she  went  in  mortal 
terror  of  his  ever  finding  out  that  she  was  a  woman. 
He  ill-treated  his  boys  shamefully,  thrashing 
them  on  the  smallest  provocation,  and  never 
spoke  to  Vivienne  except  in  a  bullying  tone. 
What  nationality  he  was  she  could  not  im- 
agine. From  his  constant  use  of  such  coloni- 
alisms as  Ach!  and  Hey!  he  might  have  been 
a  South  African,  but  his  accent  was  distinctly 
English,  and  he  scoffed  equally  at  both  British 
and  Boer,  and  seemed  to  have  the  good  qualities 
of  neither. 

The  one  thing  to  be  earnestly  thankful  for  was 
that  he  had  such  a  dislike  to  her  that  she  was 
rarely  troubled  by  his  society.  He  invariably 
took  his  mid-day  meal  alone,  the  greater  part  of 
the  day  being  spent  in  sleep,  for  like  most  trans- 
port drivers  he  never  slept  during  the  night 
treks.  The  hour  of  danger  for  Vivienne  was 
at  the  night  outspan,  for  it  was  then  that  Roper 
usually  sent  her  a  gruff  message  to  join  him  at 
the  meal  that  was  both  supper  and  breakfast  in 
one — afterwards  the  whole  camp  would  sink  into 
slumber  until  nearly  mid-day,  except  Vivienne  who 
invariably  utilised  this  time  to  wash  and  tidy 


42        .  Wild  Honey 

herself,  though  she  never  went  far  from  the  waggon, 
having  a  horror  of  once  more  losing  herself. 

Since  she  must  see  Roper  then,  evening  was 
much  the  best  time  for  the  ordeal.  Flickering 
firelight  and  the  beams  of  a  waning  moon  were  less 
inimical  than  broad  daylight  to  a  r61e  that  became 
daily  more  difficult  to  play.  For  Vivienne  was 
beginning  to  outgrow  her  disguise!  True,  few 
people  would  have  recognised  in  the  dirty,  if 
healthy-looking  young  man  in  khaki,  the  erst- 
while lovely  debutante  of  a  London  Season,  and 
more  recently  lady-correspondent  of  the  Daily 
Flag.  But  life  in  the  open  with  rest  and  food, 
were  doing  their  work  upon  a  healthy  physique, 
and  her  beauty  was  rapidly  returning.  The 
heavy  sunburn  wearing  off  showed  the  skin 
beneath  clear  and  tinted;  her  violet  eyes  had 
come  out  of  retreat;  her  lips  no  longer  cracked 
were  a  smooth  and  healthy  red.  Her  hair,  for  the 
most  part  hidden  under  a  primitive  hat  of  plaited 
grass  made  for  her  by  one  of  the  umfans, 1  curled 
and  glistened  in  the  sun  as  though  it  were  alive.  It 
was  with  increased  anxiety  that  she  looked  every 
day  into  the  tin-backed  mirror. 

During  the  long  afternoon  treks,  lying  in  the 
waggon  tent  her  usual  occupation  was  the  study 

1  Young  native  boys. 


Wild  Honey  43 

of  a  letter  she  had  found  inside  her  blouse  with  no 
clear  idea  of  how  it  came  there.  She  wondered 
if  it  were  possible  that  during  that  extraordinary 
period  of  mental  aberration  she  had  deliberately 
opened  the  letter  of  another  person,  but  she  pre- 
ferred not  to  believe  this. 

At  any  rate,  before  she  had  solved  the  mystery 
of  its  origin  she  knew  the  thing  off  by  heart,  and 
now  for  lack  of  any  better  thing  to  do  she  daily 
pondered  the  matter  of  de  Windt's  farm.  And 
one  day  the  thought  flashed  into  her  mind.  "If 
I  were  to  get  £500  and  buy  it  instead  of  letting 
those  two  rogues  at  Onder-Koppies  have  it!"  In- 
stantly she  dismissed  the  question  with  another— 
"Is  this  country  utterly  demoralising  me?"- 
reminding  herself  sharply  of  who  she  was,  and  the 
obligations  of  her  birth  and  honourable  training. 
But  later  the  thought  came  again,  and  with  it 
extenuating  arguments.  After  all,  would  such  an 
act  on  her  part  be  any  more  dishonourable  than 
the  one  she  contemplated — marrying  some  man 
for  his  money?  The  one  was  no  more  than  a  piece 
of  sharp  practice,  such  as  business  men  did  every 
day  of  their  lives.  The  other  —  well  at  any 
rate  it  would  be  a  far  pleasanter  way  to  fortune 
than  the  other! 

Cogitating  the  matter  until  it  made  her  head 


44  Wild  Honey 

ache,  she  fell  asleep  at  last.  It  is  wonderful  how 
much  sleep  can  be  put  in  on  the  veld  where 
the  air  seems  charged  with  mingled  ozone  and 
wine ! 

At  outspan  time,  which  seemed  to  come  earlier 
than  usual,  she  descended  to  Roper's  call,  and 
slipped  unassumingly  into  her  place.  Everything 
seemed  much  the  same,  but  the  moment  she 
glanced  at  Roper  she  knew  that  something 
untoward  had  happened.  The  look  she  had  so 
long  dreaded  was  in  his  eye.  He  knew. 

The  discovery  nearly  suffocated  her.  She  felt 
her  face  scorch  as  if  by  a  swift  flame,  then  all  the 
blood  drain  from  it,  and  tighten  like  a  band  round 
her  heart.  Opposite  her,  dark  half -closed  eyes 
full  of  malice  and  some  other  hateful  quality 
passed  over  her  in  a  gloating  enveloping  stare.  If 
she  had  suddenly  lost  her  appetite,  so,  too,  it 
seemed,  had  he.  It  was  with  his  eyes  he  feasted. 

Utterly  wretched  and  terrified,  hardly  knowing 
what  she  said,  the  girl  made  some  attempt  at 
conversation.  He  laughed  strangely,  answering 
her  remark  with  another. 

"The  mail-coach  passed  this  afternoon,  and  I 
had  a  few  minutes'  talk  with  the  driver.  He  gave 
me  a  bit  of  news. " 

"Oh?"    she    faltered    enquiringly,    sick    with 


Wild  Honey  45 

mingled  fear  and  curiosity.  Why,  oh  why,  had 
not  she  been  awake  when  that  coach  passed? 

"It  appears  that  a  young  lady  was  lost  off  the 
coach,  week  before  last — much  about  the  same 
place  as  you  were — you  didn't  happen  to  meet  her 
I  suppose?"  he  leered  at  Vivienne  with  indescrib- 
able malice.  She  made  no  answer, — only  with 
her  hand  sheltered  her  pallid  face  as  best  she 
could  from  the  gleam  of  the  fire. 

"They  were  out  looking  for  her  some  time- 
nearly  a  week — have  given  it  up  now,  though 
— but  all  the  coach  drivers  have  orders  to  keep 
their  eyes  open.  They  wanted  to  know  if  I  had 
seen  anything  of  her?  But  of  course  I  said  no." 

Brute!  was  what  her  sick  heart  cried,  though  her 
lips  made  no  sound.  There  was  a  silence.  He 
leaned  on  his  elbows,  smiling  his  slow  evil  smile  at 
her,  and  she  sat  perfectly  still  looking  through  her 
fingers  at  the  fire  and  the  forms  of  the  two  umfans 
beside  it,  rolled  in  their  blankets  and  already  sleep- 
ing. No  use  calling  to  them,  she  knew,  and  the 
other  boys  were  away  with  the  oxen.  In  any  case, 
all  were  too  much  under  the  dominion  of  Roper 
to  stand  by  her.  She  realised  that  she  was  in 
deadly  danger — and  alone.  For  the  first  time 
in  the  last  two  years  of  proud  and  bitter  defiance, 
she  felt  the  need  of  some  stronger  spirit  than  her 


46  Wild  Honey 

own,  and  in  her  extremity  her  heart  turned  to  God 
with  a  silent  cry  for  help. 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you,"  said  Roper  softly, 
"that  her  name  was  Carlton,  too.  Isn't  that  a 
funny  thing  now ! ' ' 

"I  don't  think  so,"  she  found  courage  to  say, 
though  her  eyes  were  the  eyes  of  a  hunted  thing. 

"No?  Now  I  thought  it  the  funniest  thing  I 
ever  heard,"  said  he  laughing  softly,  "and  ever 
since,  I  have  been  saying  to  myself,  'What  a  pity 
it  wasn't  the  young  lady  I  found ! '  It  would  be  so 
pleasant  on  an  evening  like  this  for  instance,  to 
have  the  society  of  a  nice  young  lady!  So  very 
pleasant,"  he  repeated,  and  leaned  on  the  table 
looking  into  her  eyes  with  some  horrible  mean- 
ing. "Quite  alone  on  the  veld,  with  no  one  to 
know  or  care  what  we  did — no  one  to — interfere — 
all  alone  with  love  and  the  daisies."  With  a 
swift  movement  he  caught  hold  of  the  girl's  hand 
which  was  lying  on  the  table.  But  the  next 
instant  he  had  loosed  it  and  was  on  his  feet. 

"Who  the  devil ?" 

A  man  had  come  into  the  camp.  Swift-footed 
and  noiseless  as  a  ghost,  neither  the  dog  nor  the 
sleeping  umfans  had  heard  his  coming.  It  was 
almost  as  if  he  had  sprung  from  a  neighbouring 
bush  and  Vivienne,  startled  as  Roper  by  the  sudden 


Wild  Honey  47 

apparition,  rose  to  her  feet.  But  apart  from  his 
quietness,  and  the  gleam  of  his  light  clothes,  there 
was  nothing  supernatural  about  the  tall  lithe  shirt- 
sleeved  figure  which  with  rifle  on  shoulder  and 
revolver  on  hip,  came  into  the  firelight.  Nothing 
supernatural  either,  but  something  indescribably 
soothing  to  the  nerves  of  Vivienne  Carlton  in  the 
sound  of  that  cheerful,  careless  voice. 

"Ah,  gentlemen!  Hope  I  did  not  startle  you? 
I'm  delighted  to  come  upon  your  camp,  having 
mislaid  my  own  by  a  few  miles.  I  shall  be  glad 
to  spend  the  night  here  if  you  have  no  objection?" 

Roper  turned  his  back  and  with  a  sullen  scowl- 
ing face  sat  down  again,  muttering  some  words 
that  sounded  anything  but  inviting.  The  stranger 
took  no  offence.  He  also  sat  down  opposite  the 
girl,  and  began  to  relate  how  he  had  left  his  boys 
and  gone  after  a  buck  and  got  too  far  away 
to  bother  to  return  that  night  —  and  all  the 
time  he  was  looking  steadily  across  the  packing- 
case  at  Vivienne  and  she  saw  that  he  recognised 
her,  even  as  she  recognised  him  as  soon  as  she  saw 
his  light  grey  eyes.  It  was  the  silent,  tanned  man 
who  had  left  the  coach  at  Palapye. 


PART  II 

THE  three  sat  round  the  fire  awhile,  unspeaking, 
each  busy  with  their  own  thoughts.  What- 
ever were  Roper's  his  face  grew  more  sullen  every 
moment,  and  the  glances  he  cast  in  the  direction 
of  the  new-comer  were  full  of  malignance.  He 
looked  menacingly  too  at  Vivienne,  who  had 
suddenly  taken  on  such  a  feminine  appearance 
that  he  was  amazed  he  could  have  been  deceived 
so  long.  Her  intense  pallor  and  the  dilation  of  her 
eyes  through  fear  or  excitement  until  they  looked 
like  great  sombre  pools  of  fire  may  have  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  phenomena,  but  there  she  was, 
spite  of  the  travesty  of  masculine  attire,  glowing 
like  some  beautiful  night-blooming  magnolia. 
And  she  said  nothing;  just  sat  very  still  behind 
the  packing-case,  watching  the  two  men. 

As  for  the  stranger,  he  had  taken  up  an  easy 
position  on  one  of  the  boxes  which  were  always 
lying  about  the  camp,  and  with  his  rifle  beside 
him,  leaning  forward  elbows  on  knees,  began  to  fill 
his  pipe.  No  hospitality  of  any  kind  was  offered 

48 


Wild  Honey  49 

him.  Just  as  he  was  about  to  light  up,  he  gave  a 
half  glance  in  the  direction  of  the  girl,  and  for  a 
moment  she  was  afraid  he  was  going  to  ask  for  her 
permission  to  smoke,  but  it  must  have  been  fancy 
on  her  part  for  he  lit  without  speaking. 

"I  hope  your  waggons  are  not  far  off,"  said 
Roper  suddenly.  "For  I've  no  idea  of  turning 
mine  into  a  sort  of  refuge  for  lost  dogs. "  His  tone 
was  extremely  offensive.  The  other  man  looked  at 
him  steadily  for  a  long  moment,  then  said  with  a 
gentleness  almost  deadly : 

"I  don't  see  any  dogs  about  here — except  one." 

It  is  true  that  Roper's  pointer  was  asleep  under 
the  waggon  not  far  off,  but  the  stranger  did  not 
happen  to  be  looking  that  way.  Roper  was  at 
liberty  to  like  the  inference  or  lump  it,  which- 
ever he  pleased.  Perhaps  the  cheerful  flicker  on 
the  bright  barrels  of  the  stranger's  .303  helped 
his  decision  not  to  lump  it,  for  his  tone  was  less 
aggressive  when  he  spoke  again. 

"What  I  mean  is,  I've  had  enough  of  picking  up 
and  feeding  and  lodging  people  who  choose  to  get 
lost  on  the  veld.  I'm  full  up  with  it.  I  didn't  lay 
in  provisions  against  such  accidents." 

"Oh!"  said  the  stranger,  still  gently.  "Have 
you  had  many  of  the  kind?" 

"Yes;  one  too  many,"  was  the  retort. 

4 


50  Wild  Honey 

Vivienne  thought  this  the  time  and  place  to 
make  a  statement.  "I  am  the  unfortunate  acci- 
dent, "  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  was  lost  on  the 
veld  some  three  weeks  or  more  ago,  and  this  man 
Roper  found  me,  and  has  been  supplying  me  ever 
since  with  food  and  a  waggon  tent  to  sleep  in.  •  He 
seems  to  resent  having  to  do  it  so  much,  however — 
in  spite  of  my  assurance  that  he  will  be  well  paid — 
that  I  should  be  only  too  glad  to  leave  this  camp 
if  I  could." 

This  was  tantamount  to  an  appeal  and  she 
anticipated  and  hoped  that  the  stranger  would 
immediately  offer  her  the  refuge  of  his  camp. 
To  her  mortification,  he  merely  looked  reflective. 

"  I  see,"  he  said ;  then  casually  to  Roper :  "Well, 
you  needn't  worry  about  me.  I  shall  not  encroach 
upon  your  provisions. " 

"Very  glad  to  hear  it,"  commented  Roper, 
brusquely.  "As  for  you,  young  fellah,"  he  turned 
his  dark  glance  on  Vivienne,  "I  don't  see  what 
you've  got  to  complain  of.  You  have  always 
had  civil  treatment  from  me  and  the  best  of 
whatever  was  going.  Fine  gratitude  to  turn  on 
me  now!" 

The  girl  was  silent  for  a  moment,  nonplussed  by 
the  stranger's  indifference,  and  the  thought  that 
perhaps  after  all  his  presence  there  was  only  an 


Wild  Honey  51 

accident,  that  he  did  not  mean  to  help  her,  and 
would  go  off  to-morrow  without  a  word,  leaving 
her  once  more  in  the  power  of  Roper!  She  de- 
termined that  at  any  rate  he  should  not  be  in 
any  doubt  as  to  her  position. 

"I'm  not  complaining  without  cause,"  she 
said,  looking  at  Roper  scornfully;  "you  have 
repeatedly  spoken  most  insultingly  about  being 
obliged  to  give  me  hospitality,  and  to-night  your 
manner  was  so  offensive  that  I  was  very  glad  to  see 
this  gentleman  come  into  camp. " 

"Ach!  you're  a  fool  to  get  scared  at  my  jokes. 
I've  even  forgotten  what  it  was  we  were  talking 
about.  Whatever  it  was,  I  should  have  thought 
a  big  strapping  fellow  like  you  could  have  taken 
his  own  part." 

He  laughed  blusteringly,  and  she  realised  that  he 
did  not  suspect  the  other  man  knew  of  her  identity, 
and  that  he  meant  to  keep  up  the  fiction  she  her- 
self had  begun.  Doubtless,  he,  too,  expected  the 
stranger  to  be  gone  with  the  dawn  before  he  could 
make  any  further  discoveries ! 

It  seemed  at  any  rate  that  there  was  nothing 
further  to  be  done  for  the  moment,  or  until  she 
could  be  sure  of  the  man  whose  name  she  did  not 
even  know,  or  whether  he  knew  hers!  After  all, 
had  he  recognised  her?  Had  she  been  mistaken  in 


52  Wild  Honey 

the  meaning  of  that  swift  look  given  her  when  their 
eyes  first  met,  that  seemed  to  say:  "All's  well! 
I  am  your  friend!" 

Surely  he  must  remember  her!  Yet  what  had 
she  done  to  be  remembered  by?  Nothing.  She 
had  held  herself  aloof  in  disdainful  pride  from  him 
as  from  all  the  others.  She  knew  now  that  she 
had  always  felt  an  interest  in  this  silent  light- 
eyed  man,  who  never  seemed  to  look  at  anything 
but  the  horizon,  and  had  felt  more  instinctively 
akin  to  him  than  the  others.  Still,  she  had  never 
given  any  outward  sign  that  he  was  not,  as  Laur- 
ence Hope  has  it,  "less  than  the  dust  beneath  her 
chariot  wheels, "  and  had  treated  him  to  the  same 
civil  disdain  with  which  she  froze  the  other  pas- 
sengers. Oh !  would  he  remember  it  against  her 
now? — if  he  remembered  her  at  all! 

Her  eyes  searched  his  face  almost  pleadingly; 
but  it  told  nothing.  He  had  crossed  his  legs 
easily,  and  with  one  hand  nursing  his  elbow,  the 
other  holding  his  pipe,  sat  smoking  in  impenetrable 
reflection. 

Well!  it  was  something  to  have  him  here.  His 
very  presence  gave  her  a  feeling  of  protection. 
One  of  the  umfans  made  a  diversion  by  rising  like  a 
somnambulist  from  his  dreams  to  throw  a  great 
heap  of  fuel  on  the  fire.  Mechanically,  he  per- 


Wild  Honey  53 

formed  his  task,  then,  without  looking  to  east  or 
west,  rolled  himself  to  sleep  again.  - 

"You  keep  up  your  fires  all  night — here?" 
remarked  the  stranger. 

"I  always  keep  them  up — it  gives  those  brutes 
something  to  do,"  was  Roper's  surly  response. 
"And  why  not,  about  here?" 

"Oh,  it's  a  good  general  plan.  But  there  isn't 
any  particular  need  round  here.  No  lions.  A 
stray  hyena  or  two  is  the  worst  you'll  strike." 

"You  seem  to  know  all  about  it,"  sneered 
Roper,  his  straggly  moustache  lifted  to  one  side 
in  the  usual  unlovely  manner. 

"I  ought  to.  I  helped  to  make  that  road." 
The  stranger  slightly  indicated  the  wide  and  dusty 
main  track  fifty  yards  off.  Roper  gaped  a  moment 
or  two. 

"Ah!  a  blessed  pioneer!"  he  said  at  last,  but 
there  was  no  benediction  in  his  tone.  "And  a 
mighty  rotten  road  it  is, "  he  was  presently  inspired 
to  remark. 

"Yes,"  said  the  stranger  placidly,  "roads  are 
like  dogs — and  some  men — they  soon  go  to  pot 
if  they  are  not  kept  in  order." 

Roper  digested  this  as  best  he  might,  but  the 
process  did  not  appear  to  agree  with  him. 

"No  one  seems  to  realise  that  it's  nearly  one 


54  Wild  Honey 

o'clock  in  the  morning,"  he  suddenly  snarled. 
"  Get  off  to  bed,  youngster."  He  added  to  the 
stranger:  "If  you're  going  to  make  tracks  for 
your  waggons  at  dawn,  I  should  advise  you  to  get 
some  sleep  too. " 

"Thanks,  I'm  not  sleepy — but  I'll  turn  in  when 
you  do. " 

"Well,  I'm  going  now.  The  youngster  has  the 
tent.  I  roll  up  under  the  waggon. " 

"I'll  roll  up  beside  you,"  announced  the 
stranger  pleasantly.  "But  I  hope  you  don't 
snore,  for  I  am  a  light  sleeper,  and  wake  at  the 
slightest  sound."  He  happened  to  be  looking 
steadily  into  the  eyes  of  Vivienne  as  he  said  this. 

"The  blazes  you  do ! "  burst  out  Roper  violently, 
as  though  this  were  the  last  straw.  "Well,  I  don't 
care  a  hang  whether  you  sleep  or  not." 

"Thanks,"  answered  the  other  imperturbably. 

Vivienne  spent  a  wakeful  night.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  snoring  was  not  an  accomplishment  of 
Roper's,  so  she  was  unable  to  gather  from  the 
silence  that  reigned  under  the  waggon  whether 
either  or  neither  of  the  men  slept.  She  lay 
straining  her  ears  for  what  seemed  ages,  but  the 
only  break  in  the  silence  was  the  sound  of  the 
umfan  at  his  mechanical  duty  of  replenishing 
the  fire,  until,  in  the  dark  hour  just  before  dawn, 


Wild  Honey  55 

she  was  aroused  from  an  uneasy  doze  by  a  faint 
movement  at  the  opening  of  the  tent.  She  lay 
dead  still,  and  for  one  moment  her  heart  seemed  to 
miss  a  beat.  In  the  darkness  she  could  see  nothing 
by  which  to  judge  whether  the  person  near  were 
friend  or  foe,  but  suddenly  her  heart  beat  again,  for 
a  faint  fragrance  of  Navy  Cut  tobacco  had  come 
stealing  into  the  tent,  and  she  knew  that  fragrance 
well.  She  had  sat  next  to  it  for  many  days  in  a 
coach.  Very  different  that  to  the  rank  odour  of 
Roper's  Boer  tabak. 

Then,  silently  and  swiftly,  a  small  heavy  object, 
cold  and  polished  to  the  touch  slid  in  beside  her. 
Her  hand  slipped  round  it,  and  another  hand 
closed  for  an  instant  on  hers,  then  withdrew. 
No  word  was  spoken. 

As  soon  as  it  was  light  enough,  she  examined  her 
new  possession,  though  her  ringers  had  long  since 
informed  her  of  its  character.  A  beautiful  Colt's, 
loaded  in  all  its  five  chambers.  A  tiny  leaf  of 
paper  tucked  into  the  barrel  bore  a  few  scribbled 
words : 

"  Use  this  if  necessary.  Don't  worry  about  con- 
sequences. I' II  look  after  those.  Kerry." 

Part  of  the  "  y  "  of  "  Kerry  "  had  been  left  behind 
in  the  note  book  from  which  the  leaf  was  torn. 


56  Wild  Honey 

v 

"Well!  our  friend  the  gallant  pioneer  has  gone, 

hey?" 

It  was  the  first  time  Roper  had  ever  come  near 
the  waggon-tent  while  she  was  in  it,  and  the  coinci- 
dence was  not  lost  upon  Vivienne.  He  sat  on  the 
brake  now,  face  level  with  the  mattress,  and 
looked  in  with  a  triumphant  leer  on  his  degener- 
ate face.  But  his  news  was  no  news  to  her. 
She  had  climbed  down  softly  as  soon  as  it  was 
light,  according  to  her  usual  custom,  and  made 
for  herself  the  discovery  that  the  stranger  was 
gone.  It  was  no  more  than  she  expected. 
The  gift  of  the  revolver  had  meant  nothing  if 
it  had  not  meant  that  he  would  not  be 
there  to  use  it  himself  in  case  of  need.  The 
knowledge  that  it  reposed  under  the  pillow  close 
to  her  hand  was  of  great  service  to  her  nerves 
at  the  present  moment,  enabling  her  to  answer 
Roper  with  an  air  of  nonchalance  that  surprised 
him. 

"I  daresay  he  will  soon  catch  us  up  again." 

"Oh,  do  you?  And  what  makes  you  daresay 
that,  hey?" 

She  moved  her  shoulders  in  a  slight  disdainful 
movement,  to  express  that  he  and  his  question 
bored  her  intolerably,  but  for  all  her  assumed 
carelessness  she  was  on  the  alert.  It  was  as 


Wild  Honey  57 

much  for  her  own  reassurance  as  for  his  annoyance 
that  she  remarked: 

"His  waggons  can't  be  far  off,  or  he  wouldn't 
have  reached  us  on  foot  last  night." 

"Ah!"  Roper  sat  gazing  at  her,  his  moustache 
lifted  sideways,  the  shadow  of  a  sneering  smile 
under  his  half-closed  lids.  It  was  patent  to  her 
that  he  was  meditating  something  malignant, 
though  what  it  was  she  could  not  at  present 
fathom.  No  word  did  he  speak  on  the  subject  of 
their  last  night's  interrupted  conversation:  but 
his  glance,  travelling  over  her  in  slow  gloating 
detail,  was  eloquent  of  much  that  his  tongue  left 
unsaid ;  and  though  her  eyes  met  his  with  scornful 
contempt,  she  could  feel  the  colour  mounting  in 
her  cheeks  and  passing  over  her  face  from  chin 
to  hair  in  a  hot  wave.  And  the  sight  was  not  lost 
on  Roper.  Laughing  in  his  throat  in  a  way  that 
chilled  her  blood,  he  jumped  from  the  brake  and 
walked  away. 

Immediately  afterwards,  he  let  loose  a  storm 
of  abuse  upon  the  umfans,  who  began  to  scuttle 
round  the  camp  like  frightened  squirrels.  It  was 
unusual  for  him  to  be  stirring  in  the  camp  at 
such  an  early  hour,  and  this  was  their  time  to  be 
cutting  their  own  little  capers  while  they  collected 
fuel  and  stowed  it  on  the  other  waggon  for  the  night 


58  Wild  Honey 

fires.  Roper  now  diverted  them  from  this  to  the 
task  of  clearing  up  camp.  Then  Vivienne  heard 
him  get  down  the  ox-whip  from  the  side  of  the 
waggon  and  begin  to  swirl  the  lash  round  and  round 
in  the  air.  A  moment  later  the  revolver-like 
crack  of  the  huge  whip  went  ringing  and  echoing 
across  the  veld  and  she  understood.  It  was  the 
sign  for  the  return  of  the  oxen!  He  meant  to 
begin  the  afternoon  trek  about  five  hours  earlier 
than  usual ! 

Thus,  when  the  stranger,  secure  in  the  know- 
ledge that  all  transport  riders  give  their  oxen 
from  ten  to  twelve  hours  for  rest  and  grazing, 
caught  up  to  the  present  outspan,  it  would  be  to 
find  Roper  gone  with  a  five  hours'  start.  And 
once  let  anyone  get  five  hours'  start  of  you  on  the 
veld  it  will  take  stiff  running  to  catch  up.  A 
man  with  oxen  in  less  robust  condition  than 
Roper's  might  never  catch  up!  This  was  the 
situation  Vivienne  had  to  face,  and,  thanks  to  the 
Colt,  she  was  able  to  face  it  without  panic.  But 
her  heart  was  somewhere  in  the  vicinity  of  her 
boots  as  she  watched  the  weary  oxen  come  tramp- 
ling back  from  their  short  respite.  Seeming 
to  know  that  they  had  been  robbed  of  their 
legitimate  rest,  they  kicked  and  butted  each  other, 
ran  round  the  waggons,  and  gave  as  much  trouble 


Wild  Honey  59 

as  they  could.  Many  a  bad  and  bitter  word 
went  to  their  yoking,  but  at  last  they  were  under 
weigh,  raising  clouds  of  dust  as  they  took  the  road. 

It  was  soon  clear  that  Roper  did  not  mean  to 
let  things  go  at  the  usual  easy  pace.  He  kept 
the  lash  over  his  beasts,  running  beside  them  like 
a  man  possessed,  cracking  and  swirling  the  long 
whip-thong  in  the  air,  letting  out  astonishing 
cries,  and  long  streams  of  words  which  though 
incomprehensible  to  the  uninitiated  ear  left,  by 
the  violent  sound  of  them,  no  doubt  as  to  their 
character,  every  injunction  ending  in  a  ferocious 
command  to  "Yak!" 

The  oxen  at  an  incredible  pace  shuffled  and 
clappered  along,  the  waggon  spite  of  its  heavy  load 
bounding  and  swaying  at  their  heels.  Sometimes 
Roper,  a  menacing  figure  covered  with  dust,  ap- 
peared round  the  end  of  the  waggon  and  dropped 
back  a  few  paces  on  the  road,  thereby  enabling 
himself  to  see  well  into  the  tent  where  Vivienne 
sat  guarding  her  shaking  soul  behind  a  calm  and 
unapprehensive  manner.  Nearly  always  he  would 
laugh — a  laugh  that  made  the  girl  grip  the  revolver 
under  the  pillow.  A  moment  later  she  would 
hear  his  voice  adjuring  the  oxen  with  a  savage 
"Yak!" 

It  must  have  been  about  four  o'clock  in  the 


60  Wild  Honey 

afternoon  when  she  found  herself  suddenly  face 
to  face  with  him  in  the  opening  of  the  tent.  With 
such  unexpected  agility  had  he  sprung  upon  the 
brake  that  for  the  moment  she  was  taken  unawares, 
and  might  easily  have  been  outgeneralled,  but  for 
his  cocksureness  that  he  was  master  of  the  situa- 
tion. He  stood  there  smiling  his  slow  evil  smile 
— giving  her  time  to  shift  farther  into  the  tent 
and  lay  her  hand  on  the  stock  of  the  revolver. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  demanded  evenly. 

He  assumed  an  air  of  hurt  surprise. 

"I  suppose  I  can  have  a  ride  in  my  own  waggon 
if  I  want  to?" 

"Not  here,"  she  said  in  a  firm  voice.  "You 
must  go  and  ride  where  you  have  always  ridden. 
This  tent  has  been  given  over  to  me  and  I  mean 
to  keep  possession  of  it. " 

"Oh,  you  wouldn't  be  so  unkind, "  he  said  with 
a  slimy  smile,  and  made  to  mount  his  knee  on  the 
mattress  and  clamber  in,  but  found  himself  nose 
to  nose  with  the  shining  steel  barrel. 

"If  you  stir  a  hand,  I  fire."  Her  voice  was 
absolutely  steady.  "  Get  down ! " 

His  utterly  dumbf  oundered  look  and  the  alacrity 
with  which  he  loosened  his  hold  on  the  side  of 
the  tent  and  dropped  from  the  brake  was  funny. 
But  his  face  was  not  funny.  Something  in  it 


Wild  Honey  61 

made  Vivienne  shiver.  His  mouth  under  the  tilted 
moustache  worked  as  if  it  tasted  poison,  and  his 
eyes  were  bad  to  see.  Down  in  the  road  he  looked 
upwards  once  more  to  where  Vivienne  sat,  the 
weapon  lowered,  but  still  in  sight. 

"  So  that's  it?  "  he  muttered.  "  He  left  you  his 
revolver,  did  he?" 

It  was  plain,  of  course,  that  she  could  have 
come  by  it  in  no  other  way.  He  walked  behind 
awhile  blinking  and  swallowing  the  dust,  con- 
sidering perhaps  the  problem  of  how  much  she 
had  told  the  other  man.  Then  silently  in  his 
veld-schoened  feet  he  passed  to  the  side  of  the 
waggon,  and  for  the  time  being  she  saw  him  no 
more. 

Nor  even  heard  him.  The  tent  on  a  buck- 
waggon  is  so  placed  that  when  the  latter  is  loaded 
there  is  no  way  of  entering  or  seeing  from  the  tent 
except  from  the  brake  end.  The  whole  of  the 
back  opening  was  blocked  with  heavy  packing- 
cases  that  could  not  have  been  budged  except 
by  the  efforts  of  several  men.  Vivienne  con- 
gratulated herself  on  that  for  it  made  for  safety. 
But  it  also  kept  her  in  ignorance  of  what  was 
going  forward  in  the  front  part  of  the  waggon,  or 
even  at  the  sides.  All  she  could  do  through  that 
long  bright  hot  afternoon  was  to  sit  like  Sister 


62  Wild  Honey 

Anne  in  her  tower  watching  the  road  down  which 
help  might  come. 

When  she  observed  that  the  waggon  was  no 
longer  on  the  road,  she  was  instantly  on  the  alert 
for  the  meaning  of  the  new  move.  It  was  too 
early  to  outspan,  and  if  Roper  did  so  he  must 
know  that  he  could  easily  be  caught  up,  for  they 
had  not  been  travelling  more  than  three  hours! 
But  they  did  not  stop.  They  went  crashing  on 
over  shrub  and  bush,  lurching  against  ant-hills, 
being  torn  at  by  the  branches  of  trees. 

At  last,  the  terrified  girl  realised  what  was 
happening.  Roper  was  leaving  the  road  and  all 
danger  of  interference  from  those  who  might  be 
travelling  on  it,  and  making  for  the  wild  bush! 

What  should  she  do?  Jump  down  and  run? 
He  might,  expecting  that,  be  lurking  beside  the 
waggon,  and  spring  upon  her  while  her  hands  in 
descending  were  yet  engaged  in  holding  the 
quickly  moving  waggon.  There  was  a  subtle 
cunning  about  the  fellow  that  terrified  her. 
Better  stay  in  the  tent  where  at  least  she  had  her 
face  to  the  foe,  and  her  back  guarded  by  packing- 
cases.  Besides,  to  where  could  she  run?  Back 
to  the  bush,  to  be  lost  once  more,  perhaps  for 
ever  this  time?  No,  better  stay  and  fight  it  out; 
die  fighting,  if  necessary.  That  was  what  the 


Wild  Honey  63 

man  had  given  the  gun  for.  And  he  meant  to 
come  back.  She  felt  sure  of  that.  She  trusted 
him.  But  would  he  come  in  time? 

On  and  on  went  the  waggon,  lurching  and  sway- 
ing over  the  rough  ground.  Once  a  dead  branch 
ripped  open  the  roof  of  the  tent  and  a  long  slit  of 
blue  sky  showed  through.  Another  time  a  back 
wheel  sank  deep  into  a  hole,  and  the  whole  waggon 
tipped  over  to  such  an  angle  that  Vivienne  found 
herself  standing  on  the  canvas  ribs  of  the  tent 
with  her  back  keeping  up  the  mattress  and  bed- 
ding. It  took  much  hooting  and  hauling,  two 
boys  working  with  a  crowbar,  and  Roper  lashing, 
and  howling  terrible  imprecations  at  the  oxen 
before  they  pulled  out  and  went  lumbering  on. 
The  sun  began  to  sink,  and  the  skies  to  turn  blood 
red  with  the  trees  inked  against  them.  The 
approaching  night  looked  menacing  and  full  of 
danger.  The  girl  crouched  in  the  tent  holding 
fast  to  the  revolver. 

"Oh,  this  Africa!  What  terrible  things  she 
has  done  to  me,  and  is  doing!  What  terrible 
things  has  she  still  in  her  hand?  'Out  of  Africa 
always  something  new, '  indeed !  Pliny  knew  some- 
thing when  he  wrote  that!  Oh,  man  Kerry,  do 
not  fail  me!  Come  soon!" 

She  kept  saying  that  last  sentence  over   and 


64  Wild  Honey 

over  again,  like  a  prayer.  Sometimes  it  seemed 
to  her  the  only  prayer  she  knew.  The  night  fell 
abruptly,  as  pitch  black  as  if  some  monstrous  bat 
had  spread  its  wings  and  blotted  out  the  light. 
There  was  no  moon,  and  storm  clouds  had  defaced 
the  stars.  Since  first  she  came  to  the  veld,  Vivi- 
enne  had  never  seen  a  night  so  black,  so  filled 
with  brooding  abysmal  loneliness. 

At  last,  the  waggon  stopped.  Yokes  began  to 
clatter  and  fall,  and  the  tired  beasts  lowed  moodily 
as  they  moved  away.  The  flicker  of  a  swiftly 
lighted  fire  sprang  up,  casting  knife-like  shafts 
of  light  through  the  heavy  darkness,  and  the 
weary,  nerve- wrung  girl  in  the  tent,  tense  as  an 
overstrung  violin,  braced  herself  for  she  knew  not 
what  fresh  ordeal  of  terror  might  be  awaiting 
her  in  this  silent  lonely  spot.  She  was  well 
aware  that  it  was  of  no  use  relying  on  any  help 
from  the  cowed  native  boys.  There  was  nothing 
to  hope  from  anyone,  or  anything,  but  her  own 
courage  and  the  revolver.  She  had  a  sudden, 
swift  vision  of  the  light-eyed  man  who  had  left 
it  with  her,  and  a  little  involuntary  cry  burst 
from  her  heart  at  the  thought  of  him. 

"Oh,  Kerry!— come!" 

She  would  never  have  known  that  she  had  cried 
the  words  aloud  but  for  the  immediate  answer 


Wild  Honey  65 

that  came  in  a  casual,  confident  voice  she  seemed 
to  have  known  all  her  life. 

"All  serene — don't  worry." 

Something  loomed  large  and  white  below  the 
brake,  but  the  voice  seemed  to  be  on  a  level 
with  her,  and  almost  she  fancied  she  could 
catch  the  gleam  of  his  eyes  in  the  enveloping 
darkness.  She  was  too  shaken  with  joy  and 
relief  to  make  any  response,  neither  was  there 
time,  for  Roper  raging  and  profane  arrived  upon 
the  scene. 

"What  the  -  -  ?  Who  the  -  -  ?"  came  his 
infuriated  voice. 

"I've  had  a  hard  time  catching  you  up," 
drawled  the  stranger.  "Why,  my  good  fellow, 
what  kind  of  transport  rider  are  you?  You've 
lost  the  road!  I  wonder  what  Deary  &  Co. 
would  say  if  they  knew  their  goods  were  being 
battered  and  bundled  all  over  the  veld  like  this, 
miles  off  the  track?" 

The  rage  of  the  baffled  Roper  came  down  like  a 
river  in  flood,  a  foul  torrent  of  abuse  in  Dutch 
and  Kaffir  mingled  with  English.  Fortunately, 
most  of  it  was  incomprehensible  to  Vivienne, 
but  she  was  able  to  gather  that  the  man  on  the 
horse,  Deary  &  Co.,  the  goods,  and  the  veld, 
were  all  being  consigned  en  bloc  to  a  place  whose 


66  Wild  Honey 

exact  geographical  position  has  never  yet  been 
officially  defined. 

The  fire  now  burning  brightly  revealed  the  new- 
comer seated  idly  on  a  large  white  tailless  horse, 
which  in  outline  somewhat  resembled  a  grey  hound 
and  whose  lean  sides  were  closely  pitted  with 
tiny  blue  spots  as  though  it  had  at  some  past  time 
suffered  from  smallpox.  The  rider  in  his  shirt 
sleeves  looked  cool  and  careless  as  always,  but  the 
hair  lying  dank  upon  his  forehead  and  the  soapy 
foam  upon  his  horse's  flank  told  a  tale  which 
whoever  ran  might  read.  He  now,  with  the 
subsidence  of  Roper's  eloquence,  contributed  his 
favourite  remark  to  the  occasion. 

"That's  all  right." 

"What  the  Billy-cock-hat "  (or  words  to  that 
effect)  "do  you  want,  hey?"  demanded  Roper. 

"Just  company.  The  pleasant  time  I  spent 
with  you  last  night  gave  me  a  taste  for  more. 
Then  too  I  was  sure  you'd  be  glad  of  my  assistance 
in  finding  your  way  back  to  the  road  to-morrow, 
without  being  obliged  to  lose  several  days  in 
doubling  on  your  tracks.  Deary  &  Co.  are 
particular  friends  of  mine,  and  I  know  they'll 
be  grateful  for  anything  I  can  do  in  the  way  of 
speeding  up  their  goods." 

Some  part  of  this  information,  or  the  nonchal- 


Wild  Honey  67 

ance  with  which  it  was  delivered  gave  Roper 
pause,  and  made  him  swallow  any  further  obser- 
vations he  might  have  felt  inclined  to  offer. 
He  turned  away  muttering  in  savage  tones  some- 
thing about  his  boys  having  "left  the  road" 
while  he  slept.  The  lie  was  an  obvious  one,  but 
the  stranger  doubtless  had  his  own  reason  for 
accepting  it  blandly  and  without  comment.  He 
now  dismounted,  unsaddled  and  knee-haltered 
his  horse,  and  turned  it  to  graze.  Without  taking 
further  notice  of  Roper  or  anyone  else,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  gather  fuel  from  the  neighbouring  bush, 
and  in  a  short  time  had  a  great  fire  of  his  own  leap- 
ing in  the  gloom.  He  had  built  it  some  twenty 
yards  or  more  from  the  waggons,  but  exactly  facing 
Vivienne's  watch  tower,  and  by  its  rays  she  could 
see  him  foraging  in  his  saddle-bags  and  preparing  a 
meal.  He  made  no  attempt  to  communicate  with 
her  or  amalgamate  in  any  way  with  Roper's 
camp.  She  wondered  a  little  at  this,  but  had 
already  learned  to  rely  upon  the  certainty  of  his 
knowing  what  he  was  about,  and  having  a  good 
reason  for  his  every  action.  Since  the  moment 
she  heard  the  unexpected  sound  of  his  voice,  a  feel- 
ing of  peace  and  security  had  invaded  her.  Her 
strung  nerves  were  at  rest,  and  menace  had  gone 
from  the  night  with  the  knowledge  that  this  man 


68  Wild  Honey 

was  of  those  who  took  the  fate  of  others  in  his 
hands  and  that  hers  was  for  the  moment  in  his 
keeping. 

A  drowsy  weariness  had  followed  upon  the  strain 
of  the  afternoon,  and  her  inclination  was  to  sleep, 
but  the  sight  of  her  knight-errant  taking  his  supper 
in  a  very  natural  and  everyday  manner  made  her 
wonder  whether  she  ought  not  to  do  the  same, 
not  only  for  the  sake  of  keeping  up  appearances, 
but  to  preserve  her  health  in  case  of  emergencies. 
So  when  an  umfan  came  as  usual  to  tell  her  that  the 
dinner  was  ready,  she  descended  from  the  waggon, 
and  strolling  over  to  the  packing-case  took  her 
place  as  though  nothing  in  the  world  had  happened. 

But  sitting  opposite  a  face  which  wore  baffled 
rage  and  spite  printed  on  every  line  of  it  was  not 
a  pleasant  experience,  and  she  was  glad  to  look 
past  it  sometimes  to  a  figure  lying  full  length, 
smoking  peacefully  by  a  fire.  The  man  Kerry 
never  once  glanced  their  way,  but  Vivienne  was 
curiously  aware  of  his  being  on  the  alert  for  every 
sound  and  movement  in  the  camp.  She  knew 
very  well  that  he  could  hear  her  say  to  Roper 
that  it  would  be  a  pleasant  act  of  courtesy  to  send 
over  a  cup  of  coffee  to  the  stranger  who  evidently 
had  no  kettle  in  which  to  make  any,  and  Roper's 
surly  response  to  the  suggestion. 


Wild  Honey  69 

"Look  here!  Do  you  take  me  for  a  damn-fool 
Samaritan?" 

"No,  indeed!"  she  retorted  dryly.  "But  I 
thought  that  even  you  might  be  inclined  to  per- 
form an  act  of  common  decency. " 

"Well,  you  thought  wrong.  I  told  you  before 
that  my  waggon  wasn't  a  hotel  for  lost,  stolen,  or 
strays,  didn't  I?" 

Her  only  answer  was  to  emphatically  refuse  the 
cup  of  coffee  proffered  her  by  an  umfan.  The  rest 
of  the  meal  was  accomplished  in  silence. 

Back  in  her  tent  once  more,  she  composed 
herself  for  the  night,  revolver  to  hand,  her  face 
towards  her  friend.  He  had  made  another  collec- 
tion of  fuel,  and  evidently  meant  to  keep  a  big 
fire  going  all  night.  Something  in  the  quiet 
way  he  had  settled  himself,  half  seated  against  his 
saddle,  told  her  that  he  meant  to  keep  watch. 

Also,  he  had  produced  a  book,  and  was  leaning 
forward  in  the  firelight  ruffling  its  pages,  and 
softly  whistling  to  himself.  A  wave  of  pleasure 
tingled  through  the  girl  as  she  recognised  the  air 
for  one  she  had  known  and  loved  all  her  life;  that 
exquisite  setting  by  Mendelssohn  and  Lizst  to 
Heine's  poem  On  Wings  of  Song.  She  was 
strangely  thrilled  to  hear  its  dear  familiar  ca- 
dence in  this  wild  spot.  Like  the  twinkle  of 


70  Wild  Honey 

home-lights  seen  suddenly  from  afar  by  a  lost 
wayfarer,  it  gladdened  and  put  fresh  courage  into 
her  heart.  How  strange  it  seemed  that  this 
shirt-sleeved  man  who  seemed  part  and  parcel  of 
primitive  Africa,  whom  she  had  looked  upon 
as  a  sort  of  Boer,  should  know  anything  so 
exquisitely  civilised  as  the  "Auf  Flugeln  des 
Gesanges!"  She  lay  listening  dreamily,  her  mind 
putting  Heine's  words  to  the  frail  haunting  air. 


On  wings  of  song,  Belov'd  One, 
Away  I'll  waft  thee,  to  where 

I  know  in  the  plains  of  the  Ganges 
A  secret  nook  most  fair. 

There  sleeps  a  rich  blossoming  garden, 

Calm  in  the  still  moonlight : 
The  lotus  flowers  are  awaiting 

Their  dearest  Sister  to-night. 

The  violets  laugh  as  they  prattle, 

And  gaze  on  the  stars  in  their  spheres; 

Odorous  legends  the  roses  breathe 
Low  in  each  other's  ears. 

There  bound,  and  stand  shyly  listening, 

The  gentle  timid  gazelles; 
Afar,  from  the  sacred  river, 

The  waves'  deep  murmur  swells. 


Wild  Honey  ^\ 

There  under  the  palms  reclining, 
We'll  drink  by  the  sacred  stream 

Of  love  and  rest  in  full  measure, 
And  blissful  dreams  will  we  dream. 


On  Wings  of  Sleep  it  should  have  been  called, 
she  thought,  for  the  whole  thing  was  a  dream  that 
could  only  come  in  sleep.  It  occurred  to  her  at 
last  that  the  man  Kerry  thought  so  too,  and  meant 
his  persistent  though  soft  whistling  as  a  hint  to 
her  to  sleep  while  he  kept  watch.  It  seemed 
indeed  the  best  thing  she  could  do,  so  that  later 
when  he  was  tired  out  she  in  turn  could  keep 
guard.  Already  Roper  had  got  down  his  blankets, 
and  she  knew  by  the  lowered  tones  of  the  umfans 
that  he  had  retired  under  the  waggon. 

Wearied  out  by  the  various  emotions  of  the  day, 
it  did  not  take  her  long  to  fall  asleep,  but  several 
times  during  the  night  she  awoke,  prompted  by 
a  restless  fear  which  even  through  her  dreams 
vaguely  disturbed  her.  But  always  there  was  calm 
in  the  camp,  and  always  the  man  Kerry  sat  intent 
on  his  little  book.  The  storm  clouds  had  gone  by, 
and  the  sky,  shroudy  and  mysterious  as  the  blue 
veil  of  an  Eastern  woman,  was  hung  with  jewels 
that  shed  a  misty  luminance  over  the  immense 
and  silent  land. 


72  Wild  Honey 

When  she  finally  threw  off  sleep  in  the  small 
hours  before  dawn  it  was  to  find  Kerry  still  lying 
there  on  his  elbow  placidly  smoking.  His  book 
was  still  in  his  hand,  but  he  appeared  to  be  reading 
the  fire  rather  than  it.  Vivienne  wondered  how 
she  could  let  him  know  that  she  was  awake  and 
able  to  take  up  the  vigil,  but  with  the  Wings  of 
Song  still  haunting  her  memory  she  did  not 
wonder  long.  Very  softly  she  began  to  whistle 
the  air.  He  stirred,  and  glanced  towards  the 
tent.  She  whistled  delicately  on,  and  saw  a  slow 
smile  flicker  for  a  moment  across  his  impassive 
face.  Then  he  closed  his  book  and  lowered  his 
head  to  the  saddle.  He  understood.  She  stopped 
whistling.  He  slept,  and  she  vigilled  until  the 
stars  turned  white  and  the  hand  of  Dawn  pushed 
them  back  from  sight,  and  in  their  place  scattered 
red  and  golden  roses  across  the  skies. 

Full  morning  brought  new  factors  into  the  game. 
Two  sinewy  Bechuana  boys  came  light-foot  up 
the  trail  of  broken  trees  and  crushed  ant-hills 
made  by  Roper's  waggons,  and  approaching  Kerry 
set  down  the  heavy  packages  from  their  heads 
and  gravely  saluted  him.  An  indaba  ensued, 
accompanied  by  an  arm-wave  or  two  at  the  track 
by  which  they  had  come,  some  soft  clicking  re- 
marks, and  a  few  low  sighs.  Kerry,  his  pipe 


Wild  Honey  73 

in  his  teeth,  listened  reflectively,  and  at  the  end 
of  the  recital  gave  a  brief  order  to  each.  One  went 
away  to  the  horse,  the  other  proceeded  to  make  a 
cooking  fire  and  unpack  one  of  the  loads  which 
obviously  contained  provisions. 

Vivienne,  who  had  been  for  a  little  morning 
walk,  and  now  sat  on  a  rock  some  distance  away, 
saw  Roper,  much  intrigued,  watching  the  proceed- 
ings from  under  his  waggon.  When  he  could  no 
longer  contain  his  curiosity  he  slouched  over  to 
Kerry. 

"What's  all  this?     Whose  boys  are  these?" 

"Mine.     Any  objection  to  them?" 

"Well!— What  the  Halifax?— How  do  you 
travel  then?  Where  is  your  waggon?" 

"I  can't  remember  ever  having  mentioned  a 
waggon,"  was  the  imperturbable  answer. 

That  was  the  secret  of  it  all  then!  He  had  no 
waggon.  Only  a  horse  and  two  native  carriers. 
Vivienne  to  whom  the  whole  conversation  came 
clear  on  the  morning  air  witnessed  also  Roper's 
stupified  amazement. 

"So  you're  just  hanging  on  to  me?"  he  snarled 
at  last. 

"I  like  pleasant  company." 

"To  Jerusalem  with  you — well,  /  don't!" 

"It's  a  free  country."     Kerry's  manner  was 


74  Wild  Honey 

unfailingly  suave,  but  at  this  juncture  he  arose 
from  the  mound  on  which  he  was  seated  and 
made  it  clear  that  as  far  as  he  was  concerned  the 
conversation  was  closed.  There  was  nothing 
left  for  Roper  but  to  return  to  his  own  business  of 
making  things  as  unpleasant  as  possible  for  every- 
one in  his  camp.  All  through  that  torrid  day  he 
prowled  and  swore  around  his  waggons,  furiously 
tinkering  and  greasing  and  patching  up  the  in- 
juries they  had  sustained  during  the  forced  trek, 
giving  his  boys  no  rest  from  labour  and  abuse. 
But  never  once  did  he  come  near  Vivienne,  nor 
throw  her  a  glance.  She  sat  in  her  tent  most 
of  the  day,  mending  a  hole  in  the  knee  of  her 
knickerbockers  or  staring  at  the  sunlit  land  about 
her. 

Thus  it  was  from  day  to  day.  The  two  parties 
trekked  and  outspanned  together  as  though  they 
were  one,  yet  after  the  first  day  never  a  word 
passed  between  them.  Kerry  made  no  attempt 
to  communicate  with  Vivienne.  Roper  never 
spoke  to  Kerry.  Vivienne  passed  her  days  un- 
molested by  Roper. 

The  objectionable  feature  of  the  affair  was 
Roper's  offensive  habit  of  airing  in  a  loud  voice 
at  the  night  outspan  his  opinion  of  "loafers"  and 
"hangers-on" — men  who  "followed  like  jack- 


Wild  Honey  75 

als  the  waggon  of  another  man,  having  none  of 
their  own."  Kerry  might  have  been  a  stock  or 
a  stone  for  all  the  sign  he  gave  of  hearing  any  of 
these  things.  But  Vivienne's  cheek  burned  for 
him,  and  at  times  she  felt  a  curious  impatience 
that  one  who  had  taken  upon  himself  the  chivalrous 
affair  of  guarding  her  should  be  able  to  put  up 
with  such  insults.  She  could  not  help  thinking 
that  since  he  was  there  for  her  protection  a  simple 
way  out  of  an  odious  situation  would  be  for  him 
to  say:  "Look  here;  come  over  to  my  camp,  and 
I'll  take  care  of  you,  and  let  this  fellow  go  to 
the  deuce.  Certainly  you  will  have  to  rough  it 
with  me,  but  you  have  to  rough  it  in  any  case  with 
this  lout. "  She  would  have  gone  like  a  bird  from 
a  cage.  In  fact,  she  could  not  understand  how 
any  chivalrous  man  could  fail  to  see  that  it  was 
the  only  dignified  thing  to  do,  especially  when 
Roper  began  presently  to  be  ironical  to  her  on  the 
subject  of  her  condescension  in  staying  in  his 
camp.  One  evening  he  remarked  to  her  rudely: 

"I  wonder  you  don't  go  and  take  up  your 
quarters  with  your  pal  the  Pioneer,  instead  of 
housing  in  my  tent. " 

She  was  furious  that  the  Pioneer,  smoking  not 
twenty  yards  off,  took  no  more  notice  than  if  he 
were  deaf  or  a  fish.  It  seemed  to  her  that  patience 


76  Wild  Honey 

might  go  a  little  too  far,  and  a  chill  disdain  began 
to  take  root  in  her  soul. 

And  then  one  day  she  realised  that  it  was  rather 
a  good  thing  after  all  that  he  had  not  invited  her 
to  leave  Roper's  waggon  to  join  his  own  unsheltered 
caravan.  That  was  the  day  on  which  the  heavy 
lowering  heat  broke  at  last  in  a  storm  such  as  she 
had  never  known  in  her  life.  When  trees  and 
iron  rocks  leaped  in  flame  and  fell  under  splitting 
flashes  of  lightning,  thunder  seemed  to  explode 
upwards  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth  to  meet  an 
answering  detonation  in  the  heavens,  and  rain 
came  down  like  grey  straight  rods  of  steel,  batter- 
ing the  road  into  a  liquid,  quivering  mass  of  mud. 

At  the  first  warning  peal,  Roper  had  drawn  his 
waggons  to  a  standstill,  covered  everything  with 
great  bucksails  and  retired  under  the  shelter  of  one, 
while  the  boys  took  shelter  under  the  other. 
Peering  from  ant-eaten  holes  in  her  bucksail, 
Vivienne  could  just  distinguish  through  the  heavy 
curtain  of  rain  her  rear-guard  escort — the  white 
horse  with  drooping  head  and  drapery  of  mackin- 
tosh, and  a  tall  figure  sheltering  to  leewards  of  it. 
The  carriers  with  the  instinctive  art  of  natives 
had  found  some  cranny  of  shelter  somewhere,  but 
Kerry  and  his  horse  got  the  full  brunt  of  the  storm. 

In  less  than  an  hour,  it  was  all  over.     A  tur- 


Wild  Honey  77 

quoise  sky  burned  overhead,  vivid  orange  sun- 
shine drew  clouds  of  incense  from  tree  and  earth 
and  rock.  The  quivering  mud  of  the  roadway 
was  the  only  unsightly  evidence  of  what  had 
passed — that  and  the  drenched  forms  of  a  man  and 
beast  whom  Roper  mocked  obliquely  by  calling 
up  to  Vivienne : 

"Nice  weather  for  jackals,  hey?  I've  just  been 
waiting  for  this!  We'll  have  it  every  day  now 
the  wet  season  has  set  in. " 

The  girl's  heart  sank.  But  it  was  to  sink  lower 
yet  in  the  days  that  followed  when  Roper's  words 
came  true  and  the  storm  faithfully  repeated  itself. 
She  began  to  wonder  then  whether  she  had  not 
misjudged  the  Pioneer,  and  to  realise  that  possibly 
his  knowledge  of  the  country  and  the  climate  had 
something  to  do  with  the  regulation  of  his  temper 
to  Roper's  sneers.  It  was  clear  at  any  rate  that 
if  she  had  left  the  waggon  and  sought  refuge  with 
him  she,  too,  would  have  had  to  weather  the  blind- 
ing storms  that  came  and  went  every  day  regularly 
as  clockwork,  always  leaving  the  country  fresh 
and  fragrant  as  a  rose.  Except  for  the  roads! 
The  going  grew  heavier  daily  and  in  that  at  least 
triumph  was  not  all  on  Roper's  side,  for  while 
he  was  obliged  to  keep  to  the  morass-like  track  or 
risk  capsize,  Kerry's  horse  could  pick  its  way 


78  Wild  Honey 

delicately  between  rocks  and  ant-holes  at  the 
roadside.  After  the  first  day  or  two  of  wet 
weather  the  native  bearers  disappeared,  and 
Kerry's  horse  bore  the  weight  of  an  extra  bundle. 

It  was  a  despairing  experience  to  watch  man 
and  horse  half-drown  every  day,  then  dry  in  clouds 
of  steam  under  the  brilliant  sunshine  that  followed, 
and  Vivienne  sickened  of  it.  She  knew,  too,  that 
however  strong  the  man,  such  an  experience  could 
not  go  on  indefinitely  without  affecting  his  health, 
and  she  trembled  for  the  day  when  he  would 
perhaps  fall  ill  of  fever  or  pneumonia.  Fortu- 
nately that  day  never  dawned.  One  morning  just 
as  the  sun  was  bursting  forth  after  a  terrible 
downpour,  and  the  bucksails  were  being  removed 
from  the  waggons,  the  blare  of  a  coach  horn  came 
sailing  through  the  air  and  a  sound  of  mules' 
hoofs  flapping  in  the  mud.  Vivienne  almost 
jumped  out  of  her  skin  with  joy  at  the  sight  of  a 
mail-coach,  empty  of  everything  but  the  driver 
and  a  mass  of  mail-bags. 

Within  twenty  minutes,  she  was  stowed  inside 
the  cart  tent,  the  white  horse  was  switched  on 
behind,  and  the  drawn-up  coach  waited  only  on 
the  convenience  of  Kerry  who  before  he  could  take 
his  place  in  the  cart  wished  to  change  his  soaking 
clothes  for  some  he  had  dried  overnight.  The 


Wild  Honey  79 

bush  being  his  only  retiring-room  he  prepared  to 
take  his  bundle  thither,  but  first  he  stepped  over 
and  addressed  a  curt  remark  to  Roper  scowling 
beside  his  waggon. 

"Come  along  with  me!" 

"Come  with  you?  I'll  see  you  up  a  gum-tree 
first." 

"Very  well.  You  can  take  what's  coming  to 
you  here  instead  if  you  prefer  it. " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Roper's  face  was 
belligerent  but  he  began  to  back.  The  other's 
eyes,  suddenly  grown  very  steel-coloured,  had 
taken  a  kind  of  measuring  glance  into  them. 

"Just  this,  that  you  don't  surely  suppose  you're 
going  to  be  let  off  for  your  infernal  cheek  of  the 
past  ten  days? — and  all  the  annoyance  you  have 
caused  this  gentleman  here?"  (He  slightly  indi- 
cated Vivienne.) 

"Gentleman!"  sniggered  Roper,  but  got  no 
further,  for  his  mouth  was  stopped  in  a  very  rude 
and  unkind  manner.  Vivienne's  heart  gave  a 
leap  at  the  sound  of  the  blow.  Never  before  had 
she  seen  a  man  thrashed,  nor  any  kind  of  brute 
violence  used  by  one  man  to  another.  A  month 
or  two  back,  the  very  idea  of  such  a  thing  would 
have  made  her  sick,  probably  have  caused  her  to 
faint.  It  is  certain  that  she  would,  out  of  very 


80  Wild  Honey 

hatred  of  violence,  have  sided  with  the  aggressed, 
whatever  his  crime,  against  the  aggressor.  It 
showed  how  Africa  had  steeled  her  nerves  and 
readjusted  her  sense  of  values  that  she  could  sit 
through  the  scientific  and  very  thorough  punching 
to  which  the  transport  driver  was  treated,  without 
turning  a  hair. 

Afterwards,  Roper's  boys,  with  a  jubilation  of 
manner  never  before  observed  in  them,  removed 
their  master  to  the  shade  of  his  waggon  and  admin- 
istered whiskey,  while  the  man  Kerry  went  away 
to  wash  his  hands  and  make  a  quick  change. 
The  post-cart  driver,  a  swarthy  half-Dutch 
colonial,  who  talked  the  most  extraordinary 
language  Vivienne  had  ever  heard,  beguiled  the 
tedium  of  waiting  with  anecdotes  of  Roper's 
past. 

"Maarl  it  was  lekker  to  see  dat  slegte  skepsel 
get  it  good  and  red!  Adi!  sis  ja,  he's  de  worst 
stinkhond  on  dis  road.  I  knowed  him  well  daar 
bij  de  Kaap.  Ja  wail  he  done  ten  years  mealie- 
meal  pap  on  de  Cape  Town  break-water  already 
for  I.D.B.,  and  another  five  years  in  de  Bloem- 
fontein  tronk  for  half  murdering  an  arme  kind  of 
a  Hottentot  girl.  He  hit  her  on  de  head  with  a 
klip,  wat!  Allemagtie!  sis,  yes,  he's  a  vaabond.  I 
seen  him  do  some  dirty  jobs  between  here  and 


Wild  Honey  81 

Maf eking.  Verneuking  de  Kaffirs  and  hammer- 
ing his  boys  for  niks  nie.  Ek  seh  verjou,  dere  isn't 
nothing  what  dat  verdomde  bliksem  wouldn't  do!" 

Vivienne  could  well  believe  it.  Such  of  the 
narrative  as  was  comprehensible  to  her  made  her 
more  deeply  realise  what  her  danger  had  been  and 
how  much  she  owed  to  the  protection  of  Kerry. 
Her  heart  glowed  with  a  warmth  and  gratitude  she 
had  never  expected  to  feel  again  for  anyone  as  she 
saw  him  returning,  fresh  from  his  dip  and  change, 
nonchalant  as  ever. 

"Oh,  how  good  you've  been  to  me!  What 
should  I  have  done  if  you  had  not  come!"  she 
cried,  and  put  out  her  hands  to  his  in  a  gesture  as 
charming  as  it  was  spontaneous. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said  easily.  But  impas- 
sivity went  out  of  his  face  and  darkness  came  into 
his  eyes  for  a  moment  as  he  touched  her  hands. 
Then  they  sat  side  by  side  behind  the  driver  while 
the  mules  spattered  onwards  through  the  mud. 
She  recounted  to  him  all  she  could  remember  of 
her  adventure  from  the  time  she  knew  herself  lost 
until  Roper's  appearance  roused  her  from  the 
mental  lethargy  into  which  panic  and  privation 
had  plunged  her.  But  of  the  ten  days'  gap  in 
between  she  could  tell  him  no  more  than  if  she 
had  returned  from  the  dead. 


82  Wild  Honey 

"Only  it  seems  like  a  miracle  that  you  should 
have  come  upon  the  scene  just  when  you  did!" 

"It  was  lucky  I  left  the  coach  at  Palapye, "  he 
said  reflectively.  But  he  did  not  mention  why  he 
had  done  so.  "When  I  got  back  some  days  later, 
there  was  no  way  of  proceeding  except  by  taking 
a  horse  and  a  couple  of  bearers. " 

"Did  you  hear  then  that  I  was  lost?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  briefly.  "The  Government 
had  people  out  searching  for  you,  but  you  must 
have  travelled  at  a  great  rate.  I  expect  you'll 
want  to  wire  to  let  people  know  you  are  all  right 
as  soon  as  we  get  near  a  telegraph  office?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  said  slowly.  "Unless  it 
would  be  possible  to  just  arrive  and  say  nothing 
as  to  where  I  have  been,  and  about  that  awful 
time  with  Roper.  I  should  like  that  above  all." 
She  looked  at  him  appealingly  and  then  at  her 
grimy  clothes.  "It  would  be  terrible  to  run  the 
gauntlet  like  this!" 

"We  must  think  up  something,"  he  said. 

"  It  is  only  a  matter  of  clothes  to  arrive  in, "  she 
said  presently.  "  I  expect  I  shall  find  my  baggage 
all  safely  there." 

"Of  course.  Well,  the  best  plan  will  be  for  me 
to  drop  you  at  Fisher's  half-way  house,  a  day's 
drive  from  Buluwayo.  I'll  proceed  by  coach  and 


Wild  Honey  83 

send  you  back  whatever  you  need,  and  some  kind 
of  conveyance  to  come  on  by.  The  woman  at 
Fisher's  is  a  quiet,  half-dazed  Dutch  creature  who 
won't  talk  if  she  sees  you  enter  a  young  man  and 
go  forth  a  young  woman." 

She  coloured  slightly,  conscious  suddenly  of  her 
grimy  knickerbockers  and  rush  hat.  Then  their 
eyes  met  and  they  both  fell  into  a  rush  of  laughter 
that  broke  the  last  strand  of  stiffness  between  them 
and  turned  them  into  girl  and  boy  in  a  world 
empty  of  old  griefs  and  pains  and  full  of  sunlight. 

They  discussed  without  constraint  what  she 
needed  in  the  way  of  clothes,  and  how  to  outwit 
the  curiosity  of  Rhodesia  as  to  her  adventure. 
She  told  him  about  her  work,  and  something  of 
her  reason  why  she  could  not  afford  to  have  the 
truth  known.  And  if  his  eyes  expressed  humorous 
wonder  that  she  should  so  much  mind  what  the 
world  thought  when  she  was  clear  of  fault,  his 
enthusiasm  in  plotting  ways  and  means  for  keeping 
her  doings  dark  was  no  less  than  her  own. 

"You  must  just  turn  up  casually  at  a  hotel  one 
day  in  your  cart,  and  say  you've  been  all  right — 
that  you  certainly  got  lost,  but  found  good  friends 
and  have  been  seeing  the  country  and  getting 
'copy'  ever  since.  Chesterfield  says:  'Never  lie, 
but  don't  tell  everything.'  Let  them  think  what 


84  Wild  Honey 

they  like.  They  can't  prove  anything.  Roper 
knows  that  if  he  speaks  I'll  break  him  to  pieces. 
As  for  this  driver  Koos,  I  can  easily  square  him. 
He's  an  old  crony  of  mine. " 

The  sun  pressed  down  on  them  hard  all  day,  but 
there  were  fresh  hills  on  the  horizon,  and  a  gold 
and  emerald  scape.  The  crystal  air  was  vibrant 
with  the  odours  of  rolling  leagues  of  vivid  flowers 
growing  close  to  Earth's  hot  brown  body.  Wild 
bees  hovered  over  the  brilliant  cactus  blooms  and 
strange-coloured  brittle  cups  of  the  sugar-bush, 
then  rose,  honey-laden,  and  softly  burr-red  their 
way  home. 

At  broad  noon,  they  outspanned  by  a  mule  stable 
on  the  banks  of  the  Lundi,  and  made  a  fire  for 
which  Vivienne  helped  collect  sticks.  Koos  filled 
the  kettle  at  the  river,  and  Kerry  went  off  on  the 
trail  of  a  little  bird  that  was  hopping  from  tree 
to  tree  with  an  insistent  note.  It  was  a  honey-bird 
and  its  message  was  clear  when  Kerry  came  back 
carrying  two  large  honey-combs  dripping  with 
that  golden  wine  of  the  veld  brewed  by  the  little 
dark  wild  bees. 

Vivienne  thought  she  had  never  in  her  life  tasted 
anything  so  delicious.  Koos  was  still  at  the  river. 
She  and  Kerry  sat  on  two  stones,  close  to  each 
other,  and  munched  the  dripping  combs,  looking 


Wild  Honey  85 

at  the  great  fantastic  land  about  them  and  some- 
times into  each  other's  eyes.  She  did  not  know 
that  her  youthful  beauty  had  burst  through  grime 
and  sunburn  like  a  flower  from  its  sheath.  He  did 
not  know  that  distance  was  gone  from  his  eyes 
again  and  that  they  burned  dark  in  his  tanned 
face.  But  both  were  aware  of  the  enfolding 
wings  of  some  great  unknown  force. 

Who  drinks  Nile  water  must  return  to  Egypt. 
Who  wears  veld-schoens  will  return  to  the  veld ;  who 
tastes  of  Africa's  perfumed  honey  can  never  again 
content  him  with  the  honey  of  pallid  Europe. 
Vivienne  could  not  know  that  by  her  act  she 
was  being  initiated  into  the  fellowship  of  that 
great  band  whose  hearts  will  never  more  be  free 
from  the  thrilling  exquisite  pain  of  Africa's  claw. 
She  only  knew  that  some  strange  taste  of  strange 
life  went  from  the  honey  into  her  very  being 
and  that  she  had  never  lived  before  as  she  lived 
in  that  moment.  Life  had  been  waiting  for  her 
behind  a  veil,  and  now  she  drew  nearer  the  veil 
and  from  behind  it  came  the  perfume  of  stephan- 
otis  and  cactus  bloom  and  wild  honey,  the  mur- 
muring of  rivers,  the  music  of  trees.  Africa 
was  wild  honey,  and  wild  honey  was  Africa.  It 
had  got  into  her  blood.  Gone  to  her  brain.  Oh, 
the  sweetness  of  it!  The  flame  of  skies  and 


86  Wild  Honey 

flowers!  Time  and  space  here  for  dreams!  Here 
the  rats  and  mice  of  life — malice,  intrigue,  slander, 
all  the  gibbering  gnawing  things  that  can  make 
life  hell — were  absent.  Here  one  pressed  one's 
lips  to  life  and  felt  the  thrill  of  the  kiss  swinging  up 
and  down  every  vein  in  one's  body. 

Suddenly  she  gave  a  cry.  A  bee's  sting  had 
embedded  itself  in  the  sensitive  flesh  of  her  lower 
lip,  and  an  exquisite  needle-like  pain  brought 
tears  to  her  eyes.  He  saw  at  once  what  had 
happened  and  sprang  up. 

"  I'll  get  it  out.     Hold  still  a  minute. " 

Touching  her  face  with  strong  fingers  grown 
extraordinarily  delicate,  he  pinched  the  lip  until 
he  was  able  to  extract  the  tiny  dark  sting.  She 
closed  her  eyes  and  a  tear  slipping  down  her  cheek 
wetted  his  fingers. 

Then  he  kissed  her  with  the  honey  and  salt  wet 
on  her  lips,  as  one  might  kiss  a  little  crying  child. 
And  almost  as  simply  and  naturally  she  kissed  him 
back.  When  she  realised  what  she  had  done,  her 
heart  seemed  to  become  hollow  in  the  sunlight  for 
one  moment,  then  full,  brimming  over  with  some 
strange  wine.  She  wanted  to  be  furious  with 
him,  but  looking  at  his  eyes  no  words  would  come 
to  her  lips.  They  stood  there  staring  at  each 
other  like  people  in  a  dream.  The  sight  of  Koos 


Wild  Honey  87 

coming  back  recalled  her  to  herself,  the  spell 
under  which  she  had  been,  broke.  Frigid  con- 
ventional words  came  to  her  lips,  of  the  kind  she 
might  have  spoken  in  a  London  drawing-room. 

"You  forget  yourself!  .  .  .  How  dared  you!" 

His  clear  tanned  face  assumed  a  deep  flush 
and  he  turned  away  abruptly.  If  she  expected 
an  apology  she  was  disappointed.  No  other  word 
was  spoken  between  them,  and  when  they  mounted 
the  coach  it  was  by  the  driver's  side  he  sat,  leaving 
the  whole  of  the  back  seat  to  her. 

She  found  in  this  something  to  be  thankful  for, 
though  her  soul  resented  it.  Slowly,  with  the 
gold  of  afternoon  and  red  lights  of  evening,  her 
anger  faded  away,  but  the  enchantment  of  Africa 
faded  too,  and  she  felt  cold,  cold  to  the  bone. 

At  the  next  stopping-place,  a  young  Dutchman 
was  waiting  for  the  coach,  and  went  on  with  them 
the  following  morning.  He  turned  out  to  be  a 
sprightly  fellow  from  the  Eastern  Province,  anxious 
to  air  his  views  on  the  subject  of  Cape  politics 
and  ostrich  farming.  Vivienne  earned  a  reputation 
for  unsociability  by  retiring  under  the  shadow  of 
a  large  felt  hat  she  had  obtained  at  the  hotel  store. 
But  Kerry,  who  to  make  way  for  the  stranger  had 
been  obliged  to  return  to  the  back  seat,  covered 
her  strange  manner  and  appearance  by  sitting 


88  Wild  Honey 

forward  and  entering  into  long  arguments.  Some- 
times both  men  would  lapse  into  the  Boer  taal, 
and  for  frequent  spells  not  a  word  they  said  was 
intelligible  to  the  girl.  At  such  times,  Kerry 
seemed  more  than  a  stranger  to  her.  She  burned 
to  remember  what  had  passed  between  them,  and 
shrank  away  as  far  as  possible  into  her  corner. 
He  appeared  to  notice  nothing.  His  own  manner 
became  curiously  heavy,  dull  as  the  day  went  on ; 
a  day  of  torrid  heat,  air  full  of  thunder  and  thick 
with  dust.  Everyone  fell  into  silence  at  last, 
and  no  sound  but  the  driver's  bitter  curses  and  the 
flack  of  his  whip  broke  the  brooding  weariness. 

In  the  late  afternoon,  a  mule  fell  dead-lame, 
delaying  arrival  at  Fisher's  until  past  midnight. 
As  she  limped  from  the  coach  sick  with  fatigue, 
Vivienne  caught  a  glimpse  by  lantern-light  of 
Kerry's  face.  It  was  strangely  distorted,  with 
eyes  bright  and  bloodshot.  The  sight  of  it  revolted 
her,  even  as  his  voice  speaking  the  coarse  gutteral 
taal  had  done.  But  she  was  too  tired  to  care 
about  anything.  Her  whole  mind  had  concen- 
trated itself  on  the  thought  of  bed,  and  a  longing 
to  extend  her  weary  bones  in  sleep.  So  that 
when  on  the  stoep,  as  they  waited  to  be  led  to 
their  huts,  Kerry  came  near  her  muttering  some- 
thing indistinguishable,  she  turned  away  from  him 


Wild  Honey  89 

dully,  with  eyes  and  ears  only  for  the  woman  who 
was  to  show  the  way. 

It  was  not  until  late  the  next  morning  that  her 
mind  cleared  enough  to  think.  Then  her  first 
wonder  was  why  she  had  not  been  called  to  rejoin 
the  coach.  After  lying  still  a  long  time,  she 
remembered  the  plan  that  she  was  to  be  left  at 
this  place,  and  made  haste  to  dress  to  find  out 
whether  the  coach  had  gone  without  her.  Before 
her  clothes  were  on,  a  knock  came  at  the  door, 
and  she  opened  it  a  crack  to  the  stupid,  sad-look- 
ing woman  of  the  night  before.  The  following 
dialogue  ensued : 

"  If  you  want  korfie  and  grub  I'll  bring  it  to  you. 
The  big  baas  said  you  was  to  have  what  you 
wanted." 

"Have  they  gone?" 

"Ya.  The  coach  went  at  six.  The  big  baas 
said  you  was  too  sick  to  go  and  must  rest  in  bed 
till  he  sends  for  you." 

"Very  well;  bring  me  something  to  eat,  please." 

She  got  back  into  bed,  and  little  of  her  face 
was  showing  when  the  woman  returned  with  food, 
set  it  down  dully,  and  departed. 

Time  and  space  in  which  to  think,  lying  there 
behind  the  bolted  door,  battered  mud  walls  about 
her,  bulging  thatch  overhead  full  of  fat  black 


90  Wild  Honey 

spiders  that  sat  immovable  as  Fate  in  their  lairs. 
And  her  thoughts  were  of  the  long,  long  kind, 
though  there  was  little  of  youth  in  them.  She 
was  so  silent  that  the  flies  pretended  to  believe 
her  dead  and  descended  upon  her  in  black  bat- 
talions. The  struggle  to  keep  them  off  made  the 
whole  business  just  a  little  more  sordid,  and  roused 
in  her  a  kind  of  sullen  fury  against  Africa  and  all 
that  in  it  was. 

"I  must  get  out  of  it,"  she  muttered  to  herself. 
"It  is  driving  me  mad.  I  must  have  been  mad 
to  let  that  man  kiss  me — a  common  oaf  who  talks 
Dutch  in  that  horrible  throaty  way — a  sort  of  Boer 
— how  dared  he!" 

She  tried  to  remember  his  face  as  it  had  revolted 
her  the  night  before,  suffused  with  blood  and 
swollen,  but  she  could  only  remember  the  keen, 
quiet  eyes  full  of  light  and  distance,  and  how  they 
had  darkened  when  he  looked  at  her,  and  how  they 
had  measured  up  Roper,  and  how  her  heart  had 
leaped  in  her  breast  at  the  sound  of  the  first  blow. 

"I  am  mad,"  she  reiterated  wearily,  and  cov- 
ered her  eyes.  "This  miserable  country  has 
driven  me  mad!" 

At  sundown  the  next  day,  the  woman  brought  a 
parcel  and  the  news  that  a  cart  had  come  and 
would  be  ready  to  start  again  at  dawn.  The  parcel 


Wild  Honey  91" 

contained  a  man's  mackintosh,  a  dark  blue  coat 
and  skirt  of  simple  not  to  say  skimpy  design, 
a  white  blouse,  and  sailor  hat.  She  shook  out  the 
Philistine  garments  carefully  as  if  she  thought 
a  scorpion — or  a  note — might  be  hidden  among 
them.  But  no  sign  of  either. 

"Tant  mieux!"  she  said  at  last,  and  discarded 
the  rush  hat  and  tattered  shirt  almost  violently  as 
if  with  them  she  hoped  to  throw  off  the  last  trace 
of  her  veld  madness. 

Wrapped  in  the  mackintosh  she  slipped  out  to 
the  waiting  cart  in  the  dimness  of  the  dawn,  and 
started  on  the  last  lap  of  the  journey  that  was 
originally  to  have  taken  her  ten  days,  but  had 
already  extended  to  six  weeks!  Only  when  the 
lights  of  Buluwayo  gleamed  before  her  at  last 
could  she  really  believe  the  end  had  come. 


Within  a  week,  civilisation  had  its  grip  on  her 
once  more,  and  she  was  her  cynical  self  with  the 
nut  of  bitter  dust  back  in  her  breast. 

The  opening  up  of  the  country  had  brought  a 
fashionable  English  crowd  to  Buluwayo,  among 
them  many  people  that  she  knew  and  had  special 
feuds  with.  One  of  the  latter  was  Lady  Angela 
Vinning,  a  woman  with  a  good  figure,  beautiful, 


92  Wild  Honey 

pleading  green  eyes,  and  thumbs  down  on  every 
other  woman  except  those  who  for  the  moment 
happened  to  fit  into  her  schemes.  She  and 
Vivienne  were  staying  at  the  same  hotel,  and 
exchanged  polite  greetings  and  glances  of  disdain 
every  morning.  Vivienne  despised  her  for  what 
she  was:  false,  unscrupulous,  and  mean-souled. 
She  detested  Vivienne  for  being  fifteen  years 
younger  than  herself,  and  that  is  the  most  poign- 
ant of  all  the  feminine  hatreds. 

Other  grounds  for  general  detestation  by  her 
own  sex  soon  made  patent  to  Vivienne  were:  (i) 
that  Wolfe  Montague,  the  richest  man  in  South 
Africa,  took  no  pains  to  hide  the  fact  that  his 
main  business  in  Buluwayo  was  to  be  perpetually 
at  her  heels;  (2)  that  having  been  romantically 
lost  on  the  veld  and  found  again  no  one  quite  knew 
how,  she  was  the  most-talked-of  person  in  the 
country;  and  (3)  that  she  had  turned  up  looking 
perfectly  radiant,  and  been  seen  of  none  until  after 
regaining  possession  of  her  extremely  chic  clothes. 
Tales  with  a  tang  to  them  were  soon  flying  round 
Buluwayo.  Vivienne  assumed  her  mask  and 
with  a  calm  mien  went  about  her  business  of 
"writing  up"  the  country.  But  behind  the  mask 
and  the  mien  she  was  raging.  It  was  London 
and  the  torment  of  the  last  few  years  over  again, 


Wild  Honey  93 

only  at  closer  quarters,  for  here  she  must  share 
the  same  hotel  with  her  enemies,  run  into  them 
daily,  and  smile  and  exchange  sweet  words  with 
them. 

"If  I  could  only  wipe  my  boots  on  them  all 
instead!"  she  thought  savagely,  and  at  such 
moments  almost  decided  to  marry  Montague, 
whose  flame  grew  more  and  more  ardent  with 
the  days.  But  always  a  shadow  slipped  between 
her  and  her  decision — a  shadow  with  grey  eyes! 
Where  had  those  eyes  disappeared  to?  She  never 
saw  them,  and  no  one  mentioned  the  name  Kerry. 
The  thing  puzzled  her,  yet  she  was  grimly  glad. 
Of  what  use  getting  that  strange  torment  of  honey 
and  perfume  and  wild  places  into  her  veins  again, 
when  she  cared  only  for  the  call  of  civilisation, 
longed  only  for  power  and  the  weapons  of  wealth 
with  which  to  smite  these  little-minded  women 
who  thought  themselves  so  clever  and  fine?  She 
would  never  be  happy  until  she  had  power  to 
make  others  suffer  as  she  had  been  made  to  suffer. 
What  had  such  an  ambition  to  do  with  the  hon- 
eyed madness  she  had  known  on  the  banks  of  the 
Lundi?  Nothing. 

One  day,  writing  by  the  open  window  of  her 
bedroom,  she  heard  two  men  talking  in  the  hotel 
verandah.  One  was  a  solicitor  whom  she  had  met, 


94  Wild  Honey 

called  Cornwall,  and  a  remark  of  his  riveted  her 
attention. 

"Brain  and  Hunt  are  after  it.  They'll  give 
five  hundred,  but  de  Windt  doesn't  seem  inclined 
to  sell,  though  he  needs  money  to  get  up  North." 

"I'll  go  a  hundred  better,"  said  the  other  man 
firmly.  "It's  a  good  farm  and  I'd  like  it  myself. 
Try  him  with  that. " 

"Right.     I'll  try  him." 

Vivienne  sat  transfixed.  The  whole  story 
rushed  back  to  her  mind  and  with  it  the  remem- 
brance of  her  plan  to  outdo  the  rogues  by  buying 
the  farm  herself.  She  had  scorned  the  idea  then, 
and  despised  herself  for  harbouring  it,  but  in  her 
present  frame  of  mind  it  stood  up  salient  and 
welcome  as  an  old  friend.  Swiftly  she  found  her- 
self once  more  considering  the  question  of  where 
to  raise  the  money. 

She  heard  the  other  man  bid  Cornwall  good-bye 
with  a  last  injunction  to  see  de  Windt  at  once 
and  make  the  offer,  and  a  moment  or  two  later 
she  sauntered  into  the  verandah  and  spoke  to 
the  solicitor. 

"I  heard  that  man's  offer  for  de  Windt's  farm, 
and  I  want  to  tell  you  I'd  like  to  buy  it  myself. 
I'll  give  £800." 

Cornwall  stared  at  her,  smiling. 


Wild  Honey  95 

"You.  bitten  with  the  land  mania  too,  Miss 
Carlton?" 

"Yes." 

"There's  plenty  of  it  about,"  he  remarked 
tentatively.  "And  de  Windt's  not  particularly 
keen  on  selling." 

"It  must  be  his  farm  or  none, "  she  said  firmly. 
"I  have  a  particular  fancy  for  the  place. " 

"Oh,  well !  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  for  you.  It's 
a  good  offer,  more  than  the  farm  is  worth,  I  think. 
De  Windt's  lying  ill  at  present  with  a  bad  go  of 
malaria.  But  I'll  put  the  matter  to  him  and  let 
you  know  the  result. " 

"Thank  you." 

She  went  inside  again,  and  sat  on  her  bed 
pretending  to  wonder  where  the  money  was  to 
come  from.  In  reality  she  knew  perfectly  well, 
and  she  didn't  care.  She  was  in  the  dirty  busi- 
ness now,  up  to  her  eyebrows,  for  loss  or  gain. 
If  she  gained  she  would  give  back  Montague 
his  £800  and  a  wave  of  the  hand.  If  she  lost 
she  must  marry  him  and  forever  hide  the  fact 
that  he  had  been  no  more  than  a  cat's-paw  and 
a  pis  alter. 

"He  is  too  good  for  me  anyway,"  she  reflected. 
"Any  man  is  too  good  for  me.  I've  become  a 
scoundrel  and  an  adventuress.  Three  months  of 


96  Wild  Honey 

South  Africa  have  done  wonders  for  me!  And 
I  don't  care — I  don't  care!" 

She  bathed  her  hot  face  but  could  not  take 
the  burn  from  it.  It  was  still  brightly  flushed, 
making  her  look  very  young  and  lovely,  when  she 
stood  before  Montague  and  proffered  her  abrupt 
request. 

"Will  you  lend  me  a  thousand  pounds  for 
three  months?" 

Reflection  had  shown  her  that  she  might  have 
to  bid  higher,  or  that  even  if  she  got  it  for  £800 
she  would  need  a  margin  sum  with  which  to  prose- 
cute the  search  for  gold.  Further,  if  she  could 
borrow  the  money  for  three  months,  she  might  be 
able  to  sell  and  refund  to  him. 

"Of  course,"  said  Montague  promptly,  and 
could  not  keep  elation  out  of  his  eyes.  He  looked 
like  a  large  fair  bull,  was  very  red  and  very  good- 
natured,  but  a  hard  man  at  a  bargain. 

"And  will  you  do  something  for  me?"  he  asked 
smiling. 

"I  cannot  attach  any  conditions,"  she  said 
quickly.  "Mine  is  entirely  a  business  propo- 
sition." 

"And  mine  is,  as  far  at  least  as  I  am  concerned, 
pure  pleasure.  It  is  only  to  ask  you  to  wear  this 
little  jewel  for  me. "  He  held  out  a  small  morocco 


Wild  Honey  97 

leather  case,  but  she  did  not  put  out  a  hand  to 
receive  it.  He  sighed. 

"Say  then  to  wear  it  for  three  months.  If 
when  we  clear  up  this  terribly  serious  business 
proposition  you  wish  to  return  it  to  me  with  the 
thousand,  so  be  it.  If  you  consent  to  keep  it,  I 
can  only  say — you  will  make  me  the  happiest  man 
in  the  world." 

Mechanically  her  hand  received  the  small  case, 
and  for  a  moment  his  hand  closed  on  hers,  and 
carried  it  to  his  lips.  She  grew  a  little  pale. 

"I  cannot  promise  anything,"  she  stammered, 
drawing  her  hand  away. 

"  I  do  not  ask  you  to  ...  yet, "  was  his  answer, 
but  the  ring  remained  with  her,  and  she  knew  it 
was  part  of  the  bargain.  When  she  opened  the 
case  she  was  furious  with  herself,  for  it  was  a 
ring  that  could  not  escape  note — a  great  single 
stone,  amber  coloured,  set  in  a  band  of  violet 
enamel. 

They  were  all  dining  at  Government  House  that 
night,  and  she  wore  it,  striving  to  hide  its  brilli- 
ance amongst  a  number  of  other  stones,  but  it 
glared  out  yellow  and  baleful  as  a  tiger's  eye. 
Lady  Angela  was  the  first  to  spot  it. 

"What  a  glorious  stone!  I  do  so  love  a  yellow 
diamond.  Is  it  out  of  the  famous  Montague 


98  Wild  Honey 

mine,  or  a  mere  de  Beer's?  Journalism  must  pay, 
dear  Viwie!" 

She  gave  a  little  silvery  laugh  that  rippled  up 
Vivienne's  spine  like  an  asp,  and  left  a  poisoned 
wound. 

Neither  did  a  conversation  carried  on  at  her 
right  in  full  hearing  act  as  an  antidote.  A  Judge 
of  the  High  Court  was  telling  his  dinner  neighbour 
what  a  charming  fellow  de  Windt  was,  and  how 
they  would  all  miss  him  when  he  pulled  out  for 
the  North. 

"The  country  can't  afford  to  lose  men  like 
that!  But  they  are  real  lovers  of  the  wild  and 
won't  stay  when  we  begin  to  get  too  civilised." 

"Yet  de  Windt  himself  is  one  of  the  most 
civilised  fellows  I've  ever  met,"  said  the  Adminis- 
trator. "When  all  Colonials  are  like  him,  Africa 
will  begin  to  move." 

"A  Colonial?    Pas  possible!"  cried  a  woman. 

"It  is  possible  though.  He  was  born  out  here 
and  spite  of  Harrow  and  Oxford  and  a  place  at  the 
Bar,  Africa  has  him  in  her  maw  for  good. " 

"The  dear  fellow  would  have  been  here  to-night, 
if  he  had  not  been  so  ill,"  said  the  hostess.  And 
the  wretched  Vivienne  was  thankful  she  had  been 
spared  that  ordeal  at  least.  But  she  held  fast  to 
her  plan.  What  matter  whether  de  Windt  were 


Wild  Honey  99 

a  splendid  fellow  or  not?  Since  he  loved  the  wild, 
all  the  better  for  him — he  wouldn't  miss  his  gold 
mine !  She  felt  herself  growing  harder  and  harder 
every  moment. 

"  Millionaires  must  be  made  of  tough  stuff, "  she 
thought  sardonically.  "Fine  fellows!  I  expect 
I  shall  begin  to  look  like  one  soon.  Eyes  like  flint 
with  pouches  under  them,  and  a  tiger  trap  for  a 
mouth!  Zut,  alors!" 

Thanks  to  Lady  Angela  the  news  was  all  over 
Buluwayo  the  next  day  that  she  was  wearing 
Montague's  ring.  Even  the  fact  that  Cornwall 
came  bearing  propitious  tidings  did  little  to  quench 
Vivienne's  rage. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said.  "De  Windt  will  take 
your  offer.  The  other  people  are  keen  as  mustard 
and  want  to  go  higher,  but  he  says  he  wouldn't 
sell  to  them  at  any  price." 

11 1  want  it  fixed  up  at  once, "  she  said  feverishly. 

"As  soon  as  you  like.  He  asked  me  to  hustle  it 
along  too,  in  case  you  changed  your  mind.  The 
poor  fellow  has  had  a  bad  go  of  fever,  but  the  news 
quite  cheered  him  up,  and  he'll  be  about  in  a  day 
or  two.  He  seems  greatly  pleased  at  your  wanting 
the  place." 

Vivienne  was  assailed  by  a  choking  sensation, 
and  a  bitter  flavour  came  into  her  mouth,  but  she 


ioo  Wild  Honey 

knew  that  as  a  prospective  millionaire  she  must 
get  accustomed  to  such  discomforts.  They  were 
part  of  the  training.  As  also  was  the  skilful 
fencing  she  began  to  practise  on  the  unsuspecting 
Montague.  Certainly  it  was  a  case  of  Greek 
meeting  Greek,  but  sometimes  it  seemed  to  her 
more  like  a  duel  between  a  sucking  dove  and 
a  serpent.  And  she  was  not  the  dove.  A  London 
journalist  had  once  said  to  her  that  he  believed  all 
women  were  natural-born  crooks,  and  now  she 
began  to  believe  it. 

"The  black  drop  was  in  me  all  the  time,"  she 
thought  bitterly.  "But  it  has  taken  Africa  to 
bring  it  out!" 

Although  the  negotiations  for  the  sale  went 
forward  apace,  they  were  not  pushed  on  fast 
enough  to  please  her,  and  she  almost  worried 
Cornwall  out  of  his  wits  in  her  determination  to 
have  the  thing  signed  and  sealed  before  de  Windt 
was  well  enough  to  get  about.  She  did  not  yet 
feel  quite  hardened  enough  in  the  ways  of  million- 
aires to  be  able  to  face  over  a  deed  of  sale  the  man 
whose  gold  she  was  stealing. 

Another  miserable  part  of  the  transaction  was 
the  receiving  of  Wolfe  Montague's  cheque.  That 
was  a  bad  moment.  The  paper  burnt  her  hand 
like  flame.  But  she  examined  it  carefully,  and 


Wild  Honey  101 

pulled  Montague  up  sharply  when  she  found  that 
it  was  drawn  on  a  local  Bank. 

"That  would  never  do,"  she  said  firmly.  "I 
cannot  have  my  affairs  all  over  Buluwayo. " 

"I  thought  you  wanted  it  for  immediate  use," 
he  replied  suavely,  "and  Banks  don't  talk." 

"I  wouldn't  trust  them,"  she  averred;  "I  give 
my  confidence  to  few."  But  she  smiled  her 
confidence  in  him  at  least  with  such  lovely  eyes 
that  he  went  away  with  content  in  his  heart  to 
arrange  the  matter  on  such  lines  as  only  million- 
aires can  command.  Forty-eight  hours  later  the 
money  was  to  hand  by  cabled  draft  from  London 
on  the  Standard  Bank,  Buluwayo. 

The  same  morning  Vivienne  went  for  the  first 
time  to  look  at  the  farm.  Montague's  carriage 
was  at  her  disposal  as  usual,  and  by  the  aid  of  a 
small  local  map  she  was  able  to  direct  the  groom. 
They  calculated  that  the  distance  there  and 
back  could  be  easily  covered  in  a  couple  of  hours, 
and  that  she  could  get  back  in  plenty  of  time  to 
prepare  for  a  ball  which  the  magistrate  was  giving 
that  night  in  the  Court  House. 

The  farm  lay  out  towards  the  Matopos,  along  a 
dusty,  sun-baked  road,  but  Vivienne,  well  shaded 
in  the  luxuriously  cushioned  body  of  the  carriage 
noticed  neither  dust  nor  heat.  The  excitement 


102  Wild  Honey 

of  the  gamble  for  money  was  in  her  veins,  and  she 
was  telling  herself  how  good  a  substitute  it  made 
for  happiness.  The  flickering  glance  of  envious 
hatred  Lady  Angela  had  shot  at  her  from  under  a 
white  umbrella  on  the  sidewalk  was  part  of  the 
game  that  she  was  in  now,  up  to  her  nostrils — the 
game  which,  though  the  weapons  were  sheathed 
in  silk  and  the  blows  prepared  behind  honeyed 
smiles,  was  just  the  same  old  sweet  game,  governed 
by  the  same  old  sweet  law,  that  was  in  the  begin- 
ning and  shall  be  in  the  end — the  law  of  Club  and 
Fang! 

"What  is  the  use  of  pretending  I  am  too  good 
for  it,  and  was  made  for  better  things?"  she 
meditated,  and  her  smile  took  the  little  bitter  twist 
that  was  now  becoming  habitual.  With  it  still 
on  her  lips,  she  looked  over  the  side  of  the  carriage 
into  a  pair  of  grey  eyes  full  of  veld  light  and 
far  places.  A  dog-cart  containing  two  men  had 
passed  and  gone,  but  not  too  soon  for  her  to 
recognise  Kerry  and  see  an  answering  flash  of 
recognition  in  his  eyes. 

Gone  too  her  satisfaction,  such  as  it  was,  in  the 
gamble  and  the  game.  Fever  died  out  of  her 
veins  and  her  heart  lay  cold  as  a  stone.  She  looked 
not  a  girl,  but  a  pale  tired  woman  of  thirty  when 
she  stepped  out  of  the  carriage  and  climbed  over 


Wild  Honey  103 

the  little  sloping  kopjes  that  gave  a  view  of  the 
six  thousand  acres  that  would  some  day  be  a 
famous  gold  mine.  Silent,  lovely  acres  they  were, 
full  of  colour  and  peace.  Low-spreading  trees 
standing  alone,  scattered  purple  rocks  on  which 
lay  patches  of  rust  red  as  blood,  a  carpet  of  wild 
grasses  and  little  star-shaped  veld  flowers.  Here 
and  there  great  boulders  were  pitched  together 
with  enough  earth  to  harbour  a  spiking  tree  and 
trailing  creepers.  Some  lines  of  red  gum  had  been 
planted  and  in  their  shadow  stood  a  little  thatched 
hut,  before  whose  door,  its  slender  branches  tap- 
ping the  thatch,  grew  a  little  tree  of  the  laburnum 
class,  laden  with  clustering  golden  bloom  that  gave 
a  lovely  scent. 

A  sudden  poignant  regret,  stronger  than  her- 
self, rushed  through  her,  that  the  peace  of  these 
brooding  acres  of  loneliness  should  be  destroyed 
by  what  lay  hidden  under  them.  In  imagination, 
she  saw  the  dirt  and  debris  of  a  new  gold  diggings, 
the  purple  rocks  shattered  by  dynamite,  trees 
and  flowers  torn  out  and  lying  dead,  the  little 
perky  sand-blooms  trodden  down.  All  for  gold 
to  poison  the  hearts  of  men  and  buy  the  souls 
of  women  as  hers  had  been  poisoned,  bought! 

Was  it  too  late  now  to  repent,  and  instead  of 
digging  out  the  gold  keep  the  land  as  it  was,  silent 


104  Wild  Honey 

and  peaceful?  Go  and  live  in  that  little  thatched 
hut  with  the  tree  by  the  door?  She  dreamed  with 
the  thought  a  moment  then  turned  bitterly  away. 
The  land  was  not  even  hers  unless  she  could  pay  for 
it  with  the  gold  that  came  out  of  it !  It  was 
Montague's  as  she  was  Montague's  until  she 
repaid  the  thousand  pounds.  She  must  go  back 
to  the  scheme  of  avarice  and  duplicity  she  had 
entered  into  with  eyes  open  and  heart  greedy  for 
power  and  revenge.  Her  path  was  clear  before 
her.  It  had  nothing  to  do  with  peace  and  beauty 
and  nothing  in  it  that  was  noble,  but  it  was  her 
path.  As  she  got  back  into  the  carriage  and  drove 
away,  she  knew  that  the  memory  of  that  place 
would  haunt  her  all  her  days. 

"Another  restless  ghost  to  walk  the  weary 
corridors  of  memory!"  she  said  to  herself. 

Cornwall  banished  it  for  a  while  with  the  busi- 
ness of  signing  the  transfer  deed,  but  at  the  dance 
given  by  the  magistrate  that  night  it  returned.  A 
pair  of  eyes  looking  at  her  across  space  and  gems 
and  jewels,  as  once  she  had  seen  them  stare  across 
the  veld,  brought  back  the  ghost  and  made  it  seem 
a  very  alive  thing.  She  had  never  seen  Kerry  in 
the  evening  dress  of  convention  before,  and  tried 
to  feel  astonished  that  he  should  resemble  a 
distinguished  man  of  the  world  rather  than  a  sort 


Wild  Honey  105 

of  Boer.  Inexplicably,  as  she  stared,  she  forgot 
everything  except  to  notice  how  worn  and  ill  he 
looked.  Over  the  shoulder  of  her  partner,  she  met 
his  clear  gaze,  and  it  became  curiously  and  inex- 
tricably mixed  in  her  memory  with  the  lovely  peace 
of  the  land  she  had  visited  that  day.  It  was  hot 
for  dancing,  and  most  people  were  beginning  to 
meander  out  of  doors  and  stay  there. 

"  I  want  to  introduce  to  you  a  great  pal  of  mine 
— Kerry  de  Windt, "  said  her  partner,  Marshall 
Brunton,  who  was  also  her  host  the  magistrate. 
"May  I?" 

"Kerry  de  Windt?"  she  answered  slowly. 

"A  splendid  chap.  He's  here  to-night,  after  a 
bad  go  of  fever  and  pneumonia  he  got  somehow 
on  his  way  up-country. " 

"On  his  way  up-country?"  she  repeated  me- 
chanically. 

"  It  appears  that  he  was  coming  up  by  coach  but 
left  it  at  Palapye  to  go  off  on  a  hunt  for  a  little 
child  that  was  lost  from  some  waggons.  Every- 
one had  given  up  the  search,  but  he  found  the 
child  away  in  a  wild  krantz,  starving,  with  an  old 
mad  Bechuana  boy. " 

"Was  it's  mother  alive?"  Vivienne  had  a  sicken- 
ing vision  of  that  poor  mother  sitting,  hat  in  hand, 
outside  her  hut. 


io6  Wild  Honey 

"He  got  back  just  in  time  to  save  her  reason. 
Queer  fellow!  We'd  never  have  known  anything 
about  it  from  him,  of  course.  The  story  came 
up  by  wire  from  Palapye. " 

"Is  that  he  talking  to  Lady  Angela  Vinning?" 

"Yes.     Shall  we  go  over?" 

"No.  Take  me  out  into  the  air  please,"  she 
faltered.  Her  face  was  white  as  death.  So  he 
it  was  whom  she  had  robbed!  Kerry  de  Windt! 
The  man  who  had  not  only  saved  the  child's  life, 
but  herself,  from  God  knew  what  worse  horrors 
than  death! 

It  was  out  in  one  of  the  verandahs,  dimly  lit  by 
Japanese  lanterns,  that  he  was  brought  and 
introduced  to  her. 

' '  You  two  should  find  plenty  to  talk  about,  as  you 
both  know  all  about  being  lost  on  the  veld, "  said 
the  host  gaily,  and  hurried  away  to  other  duties. 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other.  She  wanted 
to  cry  out  something,  but  she  did  not  know  what  it 
was.  His  face  was  very  haggard  with  an  irony 
she  had  never  known  about  his  mouth.  In  the 
end,  all  her  stiff  lips  found  to  say  was : 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  better  of  your  illness. " 

"Thank  you.  I  have  something  on  which  to 
congratulate  you  also,  it  seems. "  The  flavour  of 
irony  was  on  his  tongue  as  well  as  on  his  lips. 


Wild  Honey  107 

"I  did  not  know  it  was  your  land,"  she  stam- 
mered, and  he  stared  a  moment. 

"Oh,  that, "  he  said  carelessly.  " You're  wel- 
come. It's  not  the  loss  of  that  I  mind." 

There  was  a  silence.  They  had  sat  down  in  a 
dim  corner.  At  last  her  voice  came  faintly. 

"What  then  have  you  lost?  "  She  hid  her  hand 
on  which  shone  the  yellow  diamond. 

"Something  I  shall  get  along  very  well  without 
in  future,  I  dare  say — faith  in  women." 

She  couldn't  bear  the  bitterness  of  his  tone  and 
words.  They  hurt  more  than  if  he  had  taken  a 
knife  to  her.  Yet  a  miserable  pride  and  wrath 
made  her  pursue  the  subject  to  the  last  fence. 

"You  speak  as  though  it  is  some  fault  other  than 
your  own?" 

"  You  know  whose  fault  it  is — whose  hands 
have  robbed  me,"  he  said  fiercely;  "whose  lips 
have  given  to  another  what  once  they  gave  to 
me." 

"Never,  never!"  The  words  broke  involun- 
tarily from  her  lips,  though  what  it  was  she  denied 
so  furiously  was  not  quite  clear  at  first. 

"You  will  not  deny  that  for  a  few  moments  at 
least,  I  had  a  right  to  believe  that  you  gave  them 
to  me?  You  kissed  me  back  that  morning." 

She  said  no  word  at  that,  only  put  up  her  hand 


io8  Wild  Honey 

to  her  eyes  for  a  moment  as  though  to  shut  out 
something.  The  gesture  brought  into  sight  the 
yellow  diamond,  and  with  a  finger  he  scornfully 
indicated  it. 

"Is  not  that  a  symbol  of  what  I  have  lost — and 
another  gained?" 

Even  as  he  spoke  the  large  shadow  bore  down 
on  them  of  Montague  come  to  expostulate  con- 
cerning a  sit-out  dance  that  was  booked  to  him. 
Vivienne's  voice,  low,  but  very  clear  and  cold, 
cut  short  his  plainings. 

"This  ring  is  merely  the  symbol  of  a  business 
arrangement  between  myself  and  Mr.  Montague. 
He  very  kindly  lent  me  a  sum  of  money  with  which 
to  make  a  good  speculation.  I  went  to  him  in 
preference  to  applying  to  a  money-lender,  and  in 
honour  of  my  confidence  in  him  he  asked  me  to 
wear  this  charming  stone.  When  I  return  the 
money  in  three  months'  time  or  less,  I  also  return 
the  ring.  Is  not  that  exactly  how  the  matter 
stands,  Mr.  Montague?" 

"I  believe  it  is,"  responded  Montague  with 
exceeding  dryness,  and  looking  anything  but 
amiable.  The  unexpectedness  of  the  attack  took 
the  wind  out  of  his  sails.  He  would  have  had  more 
pleasure  in  bombshelling  de  Windt  than  making 
any  statement  of  the  kind. 


Wild  Honey  109 

"That  is  all  then,  thank  you,"  said  Vivienne 
calmly.  "I  shall  have  finished  my  talk  with  Mr. 
de  Windt  in  about  five  minutes'  time." 

Millionaires  in  South  Africa  are  not  accustomed 
to  such  treatment,  and  if  Montague  had  been 
followed  he  might  have  been  heard  to  mutter  in 
his  wrath  that  she  could  finish  her  conversation 
with  de  Windt  in  Hades  if  she  liked.  The  princi- 
pal fact,  as  far  as  Vivienne  was  concerned,  was 
that  he  departed.  De  Windt  too  had  risen,  his 
haggard  face  grown  very  dark. 

"Evidently  there  is  nothing  further  for  me  to 
do  but  apologise,  and  get  out.  Your  highly 
interesting  conversation  with  Montague  has  made 
that  clear,  at  least." 

"Do  you  mean  to  be  insolent?"  she  asked 
slowly. 

"I  hope  not,"  he  said  with  steady  scorn;  "only 
to  reassure  myself  that  your  arrangements  and 
speculations  never  have  been  and  never  can  be 
any  concern  of  mine. " 

"That  is  not  quite  correct.  The  speculation 
referred  to  had  to  do  directly  with  you.  The 
money  I  borrowed  was  to  buy  your  farm." 

"Indeed!  Well,  in  that  matter  at  least  I  have 
reason  to  congratulate  you.  It  is  going  to  turn 
out  a  good  spec." 


no  Wild  Honey 

"Ah!  and  how  is  that?"  she  peered  at  him 
curiously. 

"The  land  has  a  rich  gold  reef  running  through 
it.  You  will  in  all  probability  be  able  to  re-sell 
for  several  hundred  thousand  pounds." 

"And  when  did  you  know  this  wonderful 
thing?"  she  asked  in  a  strange  voice. 

"After  I'd  sent  word  to  you  by  Cornwall  that 
I'd  sell.  Brain,  the  first  bidder,  came  and  con- 
fessed that  he  and  his  partner  knew  about  the  gold 
and  had  meant  to  "do"  me.  His  idea,  of  course, 
was  that  I  should  pay  him  for  the  information  by 
going  shares  and  not  letting  you  have  the  land. " 

Vivienne's  heart  stood  very  still. 

"By  the  way,  I  was  driving  back  from  his  place 
when  I  met  you  this  morning.  We'd  been  inspect- 
ing the  specimens  his  partner  had  prospected. 
Cornwall  has  instructions  to  hand  them  over  to 
you  in  the  morning.  They  are  unmistakable." 

"And  in  spite  of  all  this  you  still  sold  to  me?" 

"My  bond  was  given,"  he  said  curtly. 

She  had  risen  too,  and  they  were  facing  each 
other — about  them  all  the  chirping  night  things — 
peace  everywhere  except  in  their  hearts.  Music 
came  faintly  stealing  from  the  dancing-room. 

"So  after  all  Africa  has  brought  you  luck,"  he 
said. 


Wild  Honey  in 

She  trembled  under  the  contempt  his  tone  be- 
trayed for  that  luck,  but  something  in  her  that 
wished  to  live  would  not  be  daunted  by  his  scorn. 
And  that  something  spoke  in  spite  of  her,  in  a 
gentle,  alluring  voice. 

"Do  you  think  it  is  such  great  luck?  Can  you 
from  your  heart  wish  me  no  better?" 

"The  luck  I  would  wish  you  entails  advice  you 
would  never  take." 

"Try  me,"  her  voice  was  very  low  and  sweet, 
with  a  broken  note  in  it.  "Try  me — Kerry." 

He  looked  at  her  sombrely.  His  face  seemed 
to  have  grown  more  haggard.  At  last  he  said: 

"If  you  lived  in  the  wilds  awhile,  under  happier 
circumstances  than  those  you  have  come  through, 
the  real  woman  in  you  might  have  a  chance  to  live 
.  .  .  you  would  come  to  realise  how  rotten  they 
are,  all  these  lucky  things  you  set  such  store  by. " 

"Perhaps  I  know  that";  the  strong  unfaltering 
force  still  had  hold  of  her  and  used  her  voice. 
"Perhaps  it  is  the  wilds  I  am  hungering  for — 
and  the  strange  happiness  of  a  morning  on  the 
banks  of  the  Lundi — "  Her  voice  was  almost 
a  whisper.  He  had  to  draw  nearer  to  hear  it, 
and  stayed  staring  with  a  fierce  moodiness  into 
her  eyes. 

"Do  you  mean? — Vivienne?" 


ii2  Wild  Honey 

"I  think  you  know  what  I  mean."  She  lifted 
her  lips  to  him,  to  take  or  leave,  and  knew  that  if 
he  left  them  they  would  go  lonely  all  life  long, 
which  was  no  more  than  she  deserved  who  had 
played  fast  and  loose  with  love.  But  he  did  not 
leave  them.  Once  more  she  tasted  the  strange 
fragrant  flavour  of  wild  honey,  and  knew  at  last 
that  this  fantastic  land  of  strange  flowers  and 
heavy  scents,  of  silence  and  song,  cruelty  and 
beauty,  was  for  her,  as  he  was  for  her.  Africa  was 
wild  honey.  The  love  of  Kerry  de  Windt  was 
wild  honey,  and  she  could  never  content  herself 
with  any  other.  It  was  good  to  be  safe  in  her 
own  place  against  his  heart.  Good  to  have  about 
her  the  arms  that  would  never  let  her  go  back  to  a 
world  which  ate  her  heart  and  made  her  perform 
acts  that  besmirched  her  soul.  But  there  was 
still  that  to  tell  which  might  loosen  his  arms  and 
send  them  empty  away.  She  held  them  tight, 
tight  about  her  while  she  told  him  the  ugly 
story. 

For  a  moment  there  had  sprung  up  in  her  an 
almost  overwhelming  temptation  to  hide  the 
truth  from  him  (he  would  never  know  unless  she 
told  him,  how  she  had  taken  advantage  of  stolen 
information  to  plot  against  and  rob  him  of  his 
land  and  gold.  No  one  even  guessed  the  truth). 


Wild  Honey  113 

But  the  next  moment  she  had  torn  out  that 
temptation,  and  thrust  it  away,  ashamed. 

"How  base  I  must  be  if  even  love  cannot  purify 
me!"  she  cried.  "But  it  shall — it  has.  Listen 
Kerry." 

In  the  end,  he  kissed  the  tears  from  her  lips  as 
once  before  he  had  kissed  them.  One  more  of  the 
little  crystal  globes  of  illusion  men  have  about 
the  women  they  love  went  smash  perhaps,  but  he 
hid  the  pieces  from  her  bravely  enough.  Only, 
he  held  her  a  little  closer,  and  there  were  no  half 
measures  about  his  conditions. 

"You've  got  to  give  it  all  up  and  come  with 
me — away  up  North — anywhere  I  go — and  not 
care  where  you're  going  to — and  never  look  back 
— nor  care  if  you  ever  come  back.  Is  that  un- 
derstood? We  shall  be  poor — but  by  God!  we'll 
get  something  out  of  life  that  those  who  live  in 
towns  and  cities  can't  buy  with  all  their  gold. " 

"But  your  farm,  Kerry? — the  land  that  is  rightly 
yours?" 

"We  couldn't  touch  it  after  all  this  buying  and 
selling  with  borrowed  money,  Vivienne.  Rightly 
or  wrongly  it  is  Montague's  if  he  wants  it — 
and  you  bet  he  will  want  it — he  must  get  it, 
together  with  the  ring  and  that  other  two  hundred 
pounds." 


ii4  Wild  Honey 

"I  shall  have  robbed  you  then  after  all?"  she 
said  sadly. 

"No,  only  paid  for  our  happiness.  Everything 
has  to  be  paid  for,  dear.  We  are  lucky  if  we  can 
pay  with  anything  so  cheap  as  money!  Do  you 
care?" 

"No,  no,  if  you  do  not.  I  care  for  nothing 
except  to  be  sure  that  I  can  repay  you  for  all 


He  kissed  away  the  rest  with  kisses  that  were 
as  fierce  and  tender  and  cruel  as  Africa  herself. 
"Oh!  yes,  you  can  repay  me,  be  very  sure  of  that. 
But  it  must  be  now.  Now!  You  must  come 
with  me  this  very  night.  " 

"To-night?"  she  faltered,  trembling  a  little. 

"Yes,  to-night.  I'm  never  going  to  let  you  go 
again.  Brunton  has  the  power  to  marry  us,  and 
I  know  he  will  do  it  after  these  people  are  all  gone, 
if  I  put  the  case  to  him.  My  waggons  are  lying  all 
ready  a  few  miles  from  here.  They've  been 
ready  for  days,  waiting  for  me  to  be  well  enough  to 
start  .  Will  you  come  ?  '  ' 

She  thought  for  an  instant  of  what  the  world 
would  say,  the  big  world  across  the  sea,  and  this 
little  portion  of  it  in  Buluwayo;  the  mocking 
smiles  and  innuendoes  of  the  women,  the  men's 
amazement  —  but  only  for  an  instant,  then  found 


Wild  Honey  115 

herself  smiling ;  that  side  of  life  was  finished  with 
now,  a  higher,  fuller  life  waiting  for  her. 

"Yes,  Kerry,"  she  said  simply,  "I  will  follow 
you  to  the  end  of  the  world  and  the  end  of  life. " 

De  Windt  was  no  man  of  half  actions.  Within 
half  an  hour,  Brunton  had  been  beguiled  into 
consent  and  Mrs.  Brunton  let  into  the  secret.  A 
long  residence  had  bestowed  upon  the  latter  a 
taste  for  romance  and  a  heart  prepared  for  any- 
thing in  the  shape  of  adventure  that  came  along. 
She  threw  herself  rapturously  into  the  prepara- 
tions for  an  after-midnight  marriage,  and  sent 
her  own  maid  for  enough  things  from  Vivienne's 
hotel  to  make  up  a  hasty  travelling  trousseau; 
the  remaining  luggage  was  to  be  sent  for  the  next 
day.  One  or  two  very  favoured  guests  being 
intimate  friends  of  de  Windt 's  were  let  into  the 
secret  and  allowed  to  stay,  the  rest  went  home  all 
unsuspecting  and  never  knew  the  news  until  next 
morning. 

The  amazing  thing  was  that  Montague  was  one 
of  those  who  stayed.  Vivienne  had  accomplished 
a  short  interview  with  him,  and  returned  him  those 
things  which  were  his  with  a  brief  resume  of 
the  situation.  To  do  him  justice,  he  took  it  like 
a  man,  as  well  he  might, when  he  was  like  to  come 
out  of  the  affair  richer  by  several  hundreds  of 


n6  Wild  Honey 

thousands.  For  de  Windt  would  accept  no  other 
solution  of  the  money  tangle  than  that  Montague 
take  possession  of  the  farm  and  all  its  treasures. 
In  return,  he  accepted  the  loan  of  Montague's 
carriage  in  which  to  carry  Vivienne  away  to  her 
new  life. 

In  one  of  the  small,  sweet,  exquisitely  fresh 
hours  before  dawn  they  were  set  down  and  left 
alone  on  the  wide  and  empty  veld.  The  dusty 
road  along  which  they  had  come  was  beautified 
by  wraith-like  rays  from  a  passing  moon.  Purple 
rocks  had  put  on  a  silvery  sheen.  The  white 
radiant  stars  burned  like  jewels  in  the  blue  veil 
of  heaven.  Far  hills  and  shadowy  trees  rose 
silent  and  salient  against  the  sky.  The  spot 
where  the  waggons  lay  outspanned  was  close  to  de 
Windt's  old  farm,  in  the  same  area  of  brooding 
peace  Vivienne  had  visited  the  day  before — but 
with  how  different  a  mood !  Then,  Life  had  tasted 
bitterer  between  her  lips  than  the  aloes  of  Death. 
Now,  her  heart  was  clean  of  guile  as  a  white  rose, 
and  she  was  a  red  and  glowing  rose  whose  fragrance 
intoxicated  them  both  with  the  divine  madness  of 
love.  Old  Africa  took  them  to  her  breast  and 
they  became  part  of  her. 


Common  or  Garden  Earth 


Common  or  Garden  Earth 

HPHERE  always  seems  to  be  more  ardour  and 
*  vitality  in  blue-eyed  people  than  in  others, 
and  Diane  Heywood  and  Maryon  Hammond 
were  both  blue-eyed — with  a  difference.  His 
were  blue  as  the  inner  light  of  a  glacier,  with  some- 
thing of  the  ice's  quality  in  their  steady  stare — 
a  fighter's  eyes,  hard  as  a  rock  that  you  cannot 
break  with  an  axe;  the  kind  of  eyes  that  women 
forgive  anything  to.  Indeed  Hammond  had 
spent  most  of  his  thirty-eight  years  sinning  against 
women,  and  they  forgave  him  even  unto  seventy 
times  seven;  and  that  was  as  far  as  the  Holy 
Scriptures  entered  into  the  matter.  Like  Napo- 
leon he  was  a  little  fellow  when  it  came  to  measure- 
ments, but  so  alert,  high-headed,  and  graceful 
that  no  one  would  have  guessed  him  to  be  some- 
thing under  five-foot  eight,  and  he  had  the  swiftest, 
most  silent  feet  in  Africa,  whether  for  dancing, 
running,  leaping,  tracking  a  lion,  or  kicking  a 
nigger.  A  copper  complexion  bestowed  upon  him 
by  the  land  he  loved,  and  a  small  tan-coloured 

119 


120  Wild  Honey 

moustache  above  a  somewhat  traplike  mouth 
made  up  the  rest  of  his  equipment.  It  may  be 
gathered  that  he  was  no  beauty;  but  he  was  "the 
captain  of  his  soul, "  such  at  it  was,  and  he  carried 
himself  as  though  the  gods  had  elected  him  to  be 
one  of  the  eternal  captains  of  the  earth. 

Diane  Heywood's  eyes  were  long  and  deep  and 
cool  with  shadows  in  them  like  the  shadows  under 
far  hills  on  a  hot  day,  and  that  should  have  been 
enough  for  any  woman;  but  the  gods  had  been 
good  to  her  and  added  a  slim  little  nose  that  grew 
straight  out  of  her  forehead  like  a  Greek  woman's, 
dragging  her  upper  lip  so  high  that  there  seemed 
nothing  of  it  except  a  red  curve  above  another 
red  curve  and  a  short  firm  chin  with  a  cleft  in  it. 
It  was  hard  to  tell  what  in  all  these  soft  curves  and 
dimples  should  suggest  a  pride  of  spirit  almost 
insolent,  a  scorn  of  all  things  that  were  not  high 
and  clear  and  noble.  It  might  have  been  some- 
thing in  the  tilt  of  her  head,  the  turn  of  her  mouth, 
or  the  unflickering  character  of  the  shadows  in 
her  eyes;  but  whatever  or  wherever  its  origin 
it  was  there  for  all  men  to  read,  and  not  the 
least  of  her  attractions  when  read ;  for  all  men, 
whether  they  know  it  or  not,  love  that  quality 
of  pride  in  women,  recognising,  dimly  or  clearly 
according  to  their  natures,  that  on  it  is  based 


Common  or  Garden  Earth        121 

all   fine   and   great  things  in  the  generation  to 
come. 

However,  if  instead  of  possessing  the  beauty  of 
a  May  Day  Miss  Heywood  had  been  the  dullest 
and  plainest  of  girls  she  would  still  have  enjoyed, 
for  a  time  at  least,  the  rather  enchanting  experi- 
ence of  having  all  the  men  in  Fort  Salisbury 
buzzing  about  her  like  bees  round  a  rose  on  a 
June  morning,  and  every  woman  hanging  on  her 
lips  as  if  she  were  the  Oracle  of  Thebes.  For  she 
had  come  straight  from  England  and  the  charm  of 
"home"  still  hung  about  her  even  as  the  colour  of 
"  home  "  stayed  in  her  cheeks.  She  had  seen  fields 
— little  square  fields  with  hedges  growing  round 
them,  and  buttercups  growing  in  them — plucked 
blackberries  and  cowslips,  ridden  to  hounds  in  the 
Black  Vale;  heard  the  jingle  of  hansom  bells,  and 
'busses  rumbling  on  asphalt,  and  the  boom  of  Big 
Ben ;  tasted  London  fog,  smelt  the  Thames ;  seen 
Charles  the  First  riding  down  Whitehall,  and  Nel- 
son's cocked  hat  lost  in  the  mist.  She,  the  latest 
comer,  had  seen  and  done  and  heard  all  or  any  of 
these  dear  and  desirable  things  later  than  any  of  the 
homesick  exiles  in  Salisbury ;  therefore  was  she  most 
dear  and  desirable  beyond  all  things  that  be. 

"She  was  London,  she  was  Torment,  she  was  Town." 


122  Wild  Honey 

There  were  in  Rhodesia  women  whom  men 
loved  or  reverenced  or  tolerated  or  disliked  or 
desired  as  the  case  might  be,  but,  for  the  time 
being,  one  and  all  of  these  were  neglected  and 
forgotten  for  the  society  of  "the  girl  from  home." 

Five  men  were  on  the  verge  of  proposing  to  her 
— one  of  whom  by  the  way  was  already  engaged — 
when  suddenly  Maryon  Hammond  with  his  dog 
Boston  at  his  heels  dropped  up  from  his  mining 
camp  out  beyond  Mazoe.  And  when  "Marie" 
Hammond  set  his  gay,  bad  eyes  on  a  woman's 
face,  and  his  feet  on  the  path  that  led  to  that 
woman's  heart,  the  other  men  were  just  wise 
enough  to  drop  out  of  the  running  and  pretend  they 
didn't  mind. 

Like  all  great  passions,  it  did  not  take  long  to 
come  to  a  head — only  a  few  afternoon  rides  across 
the  short  springy  veld  grass,  a  few  moonlit  even- 
ings with  music  in  the  house  and  loungers  in 
the  verandahs,  a  supper  or  two  up  in  the  old 
Kopje  Fort,  and  then  the  ball  got  up  by  Hammond 
and  his  cronies  at  the  club. 

When,  after  the  fifth  waltz,  Diane  Heywood 
came  into  the  ballroom  from  the  dim  verandah 
where  she  had  been  sitting-out  a  dance  with 
Maryon  Hammond,  her  eyes  were  like  two  violets 
that  had  been  plucked  at  dawn  with  the  mists  of 


Common  or  Garden  Earth        123 

the  night  still  on  them.  She  had  the  lovely  dewy 
look  of  a  girl  who  has  been  kissed  in  the  darkness 
by  the  man  she  loves;  a  girl  whose  heart  has 
waked  up  and  found  itself  beating  in  a  woman's 
breast. 

They  had  known  each  other  only  a  week,  but 
it  was  plain  to  see  what  had  come  to  them.  She 
wore  the  news  in  her  parted  lips,  her  tinted  cheeks, 
and  the  little  rumple  of  her  hair.  He  walked  as 
one  whom  the  gods  had  chosen  to  honour,  pride- 
of-life  written  across  his  face,  yet  in  his  eyes  a 
humility  curious  in  Maryon  Hammond.  He  had 
met  his  Waterloo. 

Some  of  the  women  gave  little  sighs,  not  in 
envy  so  much  as  in  a  kind  of  sadness  that  certain 
beautiful  things  only  come  once  in  each  woman's 
life,  however  much  she  may  try  and  repeat  or  give 
base  imitations  of  them;  and  most  men  felt  a  sort 
of  warmth  in  their  veins  as  they  looked  at  those 
two  radiant  beings.  But  a  number  of  people 
merely  contented  themselves  with  feeling  ex- 
tremely glad  that  the  career  of  Maryon  Hammond 
as  a  pirate  in  love  was  at  an  end. 

For  it  must  here  be  admitted  that  the  spectacle 
of  a  woman  holding  out  her  soul  in  both  hands  for 
Maryon  Hammond  to  play  with,  or  walk  over, 
or  throw  into  the  fires  that  burn  and  consume  not, 


124  Wild  Honey 

was  not  an  altogether  novel  one  to  some  at  least 
of  those  present;  it  had  been  witnessed  before 
in  various  parts  of  Africa — and  the  entertainment, 
it  may  be  mentioned,  is  not  a  pretty  one  when  the 
man  concerned  is  not  worrying  particularly  about 
souls.  People  said  that  Marie  Hammond  took 
toll  of  women's  souls  for  something  a  woman 
had  once  done  to  his  own,  long  ago  in  his  own 
country  America ;  but  none  knew  the  rights  of  the 
story. 

Then  there  was  his  friendship  with  the  beautiful 
Cara  de  Rivas.  No  one  had  been  quite  sure  how 
far,  if  at  all,  her  soul  had  entered  into  that  matter ; 
but  it  was  certain  that  tongues  had  been  set  a- 
wagging,  for  Maryon  Hammond's  friendship  was 
a  dangerous  if  fascinating  thing  for  a  woman  to 
possess,  unless  she  happened  to  be  the  woman 
he  was  going  to  marry.  And  Cara  de  Rivas  was 
already  married.  That  was  the  trouble.  For 
Nick  de  Rivas,  a  big,  handsome,  if  slightly  morose 
fellow  was  plainly  something  less  than  sympathetic 
with  his  wife's  mid-summer  madness;  even  though, 
until  Hammond  called  his  attention  to  the  matter, 
he  had  appeared  to  be  blind  and  indifferent  to  the 
fact  that  he  had  a  pretty  and  charming  wife. 

There  had  been  considerable  relief  felt  when  de 
Rivas  in  spite  of  his  home  and  large  mining  inter- 


Common  or  Garden  Earth        125 

ests  being  in  Mashonaland  suddenly  decided  to 
take  his  wife  away  on  a  trip  to  England. 

"And  no  bones  broken,"  sighed  Rhodesians, 
though  they  sought  in  vain  for  confirmation  of 
that  or  any  other  legend]  in  the  stony  stare 
of  Maryon  Hammond.  They  were  a  romantic 
people  those  Rhodesians  in  the  far-off  days  of 
1896,  with  no  rooted  objection  to  illegal  adventure, 
but  though  Hammond  was  neither  good  nor 
beautiful  he  had  endeared  himself  to  the  country 
in  many  ways  and  everyone  was  glad  to  think 
that  his  stormy  career  was  likely  to  come  to  an 
end  in  the  peaceful  harbour  of  marriage  instead 
of  in  some  more  tragic  fashion.  And  no  one  could 
help  rejoicing  that  Fate  had  arranged  for  the 
advent  of  Jack  Heywood's  sister  while  the  de 
Rivas  were  still  away,  and  that  the  whole  affair 
was  likely  to  be  fixed  up  before  the  de  Rivas' 
return  which,  by  the  way,  after  the  lapse  of  nearly 
a  year  had  already  been  signalled. 

The  Hammond-Heywood  engagement  then, 
was  announced  about  two  weeks  after  the  ball 
at  the  Club,  though  everyone  knew  perfectly  well 
that  it  had  been  signed  and  sealed,  so  to  speak,  on 
that  night,  the  extra  two  weeks  being  thrown  in 
as  a  concession  to  conventionality  and  a  sort  of 
bonus  to  the  men  who  had  been  about  to  propose. 


126  Wild  Honey 

Besides  Miss  Heywood  had  a  family  in  England 
whom  it  was  Hammond's  business  to  consult  and 
beguile,  and  consultations  and  beguilements  take 
time  as  well  as  money  when  they  have  to  be  con- 
ducted by  cable.  In  the  meantime,  it  was  plain 
to  see  that  Love  had  found  Maryon  Hammond 
at  last,  and  that  he  was  loved  openly  and  gladly 
back.  It  was  for  all  the  world  to  see — as  patent 
as  the  silver  stars  on  a  purple  African  night. 
He  would  walk  rough-shod  over  everybody  in  a 
drawing-room  or  cricket-field  or  polo-ground  to 
reach  her  side,  and  she  would  openly  and  obvi- 
ously forget  everybody  else  in  the  place  and  in 
the  world  when  he  was  there.  No  matter  how 
big  or  how  curious  the  crowd  these  two  were  alone 
in  it  when  they  were  together.  People  said  that 
it  must  have  been  a  strange,  almost  piquant, 
sensation  to  Hammond  so  expert  in  secret  intrigue, 
so  versed  in  the  dissimulation  and  duplicity  of 
illegal  adventure,  to  be  at  last  conducting  a  love 
affair  in  the  open,  reckless  of  the  eyes  of  men, 
and  the  tongues  of  women,  because  for  once  the 
woman  in  the  case  had  nothing  to  fear !  Be  that 
as  it  may,  a  passion  so  fine  and  frank  and  careless 
had  never  before  been  seen  in  a  land  where  great 
passions  are  not  rare,  and  Salisbury  genuflected 
before  it  in  all  reverence  and  admiration. 


Common  or  Garden  Earth        127 

It  was  at  this  propitious  juncture  that  the  de 
Rivas  elected  to  return.  Their  home  was  not  in 
Salisbury  but  about  seventy  miles  off,  out  Mazoe 
way  too,  and  incidentally  not  above  ten  miles 
from  Hammond's  own  camp,  but  they  put  up  at 
a  hotel  in  town  for  a  week  or  two  to  give  Mrs.  de 
Rivas  time  to  recover  from  the  fatigue  of  a  long 
coach  journey,  and  be  welcomed  back  by  old 
friends.  Promptly  all  the  women  in  the  town  went 
to  call,  and  take  the  news  of  the  Hammond-Hey- 
wood  engagement. 

The  Spanish  Inquisition  is  no  more,  but  the 
gentle  art  of  putting  the  question  accompanied 
by  the  wratching  torture  has  not  yet  been  lost. 
Even  when  malice  is  absent,  who  can  eradicate 
curiosity  from  the  feminine  temperament?  Cara 
de  Rivas'  dearest  and  most  intimate  Inquisitors 
were  tender  for  her,  however.  They  considered 
it  only  human  that  they  should  desire  to  know 
how  she  was  "taking  it,"  but  they  had  no  coarse 
intent  of  putting  questions.  Merely  they  hoped 
to  extract  a  few  answers — eyes  and  lips  and 
incidentally  clothes  tell  so  much! 

And  behold!  two  of  the  answers  were  entirely 
unexpected. 

The  first  was  that  Cara  de  Rivas  was  as  deeply 
in  love  with  her  husband  as  he  was  plainly  and 


128  Wild  Honey 

profoundly  in  love  with  her.  This  was  for  all 
the  world  to  see  and  all  the  world  proclaimed  it 
instantly;  but  the  other  and  charming  piece  of 
news  was  more  subtly  distributed.  Women  con- 
veyed it  by  means  of  their  eyebrows,  with  benign 
little  smiles,  and  cryptic  remarks,  such  as  that— 
"It  was  all  for  the  best";  "It  would  make  such 
a  bond";  "No  more  dangerous  friendships"; 
"It  would  help  the  poor  thing  to  forget  (if  there 
was  anything  to  forget) !" 

Afterwards,  all  wise  people  let  the  story  of  "the 
dangerous  friendship"  die  and  be  buried,  as  all 
things  that  are  dead  as  nails  ought  to  be  buried 
and  put  out  of  sight.  And  no  one  but  a  few 
scandal-lovers  talked  of  anything  but  the  speedily 
approaching  marriage.  The  men  of  Salisbury 
made  Bernard  Carr's  life  a  torment  to  him,  ac- 
cusing him  of  being  busier  than  a  hen  with  a 
tin  chicken  getting  Maryon  Hammond's  trousseau 
ready,  while  they  went  into  the  matter  of  that 
same  trousseau  with  profane  and  particular  detail. 
For  Carr  was  Jonathan  to  Maryon  Hammond's 
David,  and  his  love  for  his  friend  was  outra- 
geous and  notorious,  passing  all  bounds.  Like  the 
mother  of  Asa  he  had  made  an  idol  in  a  grove; 
and  the  name  of  the  idol  was  Hammond.  The 
other  friend  and  partner  of  Maryon  Hammond 


Common  or  Garden  Earth        129 

was  Girder,  a  dry,  lean  fellow  of  cynical  disposi- 
tion, professing  affection  for  neither  man,  woman, 
nor  dog ;  but  throughout  the  long  sun-smitten  days 
and  rain-soaked  nights  of  that  wet,  hot  January, 
he  was  the  only  man  who  refrained  from  joining 
in  the  general  ribaldry  at  Carr's  expense,  just  be- 
cause Carr,  the  perfect  friend,  neglected  his  own 
affairs  to  put  Hammond's  in  order,  so  that  the 
latter  might  in  due  time  marry  and  leave  the 
country.  While  Hammond,  gay  of  heart  and 
wonderfully  brilliant  of  face  considering  he  had 
no  looks,  irreproachable  always  in  white  duck 
riding-kit — grande  tenue  for  Salisbury — idled  away 
the  sunlit,  starlit  hours  with  the  moon  of  his  desire 
that  knew  no  wane. 

Strange  that  the  affair  of  Maryon  Hammond's 
trousseau  should  occupy  the  minds  and  tongues 
of  his  friends  far  more  than  the  threatened  rising 
of  the  natives!  But  that  was  ever  the  way  of 
Rhodesians  in  '96.  "Take  care  of  the  affairs  of 
your  neighbour, "  ran  their  motto,  "and  the  affairs 
of  the  country  will  take  care  of  themselves." 
Besides,  the  natives  had  threatened  so  often;  it 
was  absurd  to  be  disturbed  about  them. 

The  growing  restlessness  and  insolence  of  the 
Mashona  tribes  kraaled  in  the  Salisbury,  Mazoe, 
and  Lomagundi  districts — that  is,  within  a  sixty- 


130  Wild  Honey 

mile  radius  of  the  capital  was  in  fact  notorious, 
and  many  of  the  outlying  farmers  and  miners 
professed  uneasiness;  but  the  Native  Com- 
missioners whose  business  it  was  to  know 
such  things  scoffed  at  their  fears.  The  notion 
of  a  rebellion  amongst  a  tribe  of  people  long 
down-trodden  and  brow-beaten  by  the  fierce 
Matabele,  and  now  for  the  first  time  enjoying 
properous  and  unharried  life  under  the  white 
man's  rule  found  the  Commissioners  sneering 
incredulously. 

"Makalikas  show  fight!"  scoffed  Brebner, 
Head  of  the  Native  Department  and  terror  of 
every  black  face  from  Vryberg  to  Blantire.  ' '  Great 
Lord  of  War!  There  is  not  one  'liver'  among  the 
whole  fifty  thousand  of  them.  But  of  course 
they're  cheeky — all  niggers  are  when  they  get  fat, 
and  it  takes  only  one  good  season  with  the  crops  for 
that.  Moreover  you  must  remember  that  it  is 
now  about  six  years  since  the  Matabele  knocked 
annual  spots  off  them,  and  they  are  beginning 
to  forget  who  it  was  stopped  that  by  smashing 
the  Matabele.  Therefore  they  are  cheeky,  also 
inclined  to  think  they  are  great.  But  you  give 
me  ten  men  and  three  Cape  'boys'  and  I'll  settle 
the  hash  of  any  ten  thousand  of  them  in  this 
blessed  country." 


Common  or  Garden  Earth        131 

This  last  to  the  Administrator  for  whose  per- 
mission he  was  nagging  to  go  and  "remonstrate" 
with  the  ringleaders  of  a  tribal  fight  down  Victoria 
way.  The  Administrator  smiled  at  the  word. 
He  was  aware  that  Brebner  invariably  "remon- 
strated "  with  a  riding- whip,  but  being  a  wise  man 
and  one  who  had  lived  a  great  part  of  his  life 
amongst  natives  he  was  also  aware  that  Brebner' s 
mode  of  argument  was  the  best  and  only  one 
properly  appreciated  by  "our  poor  black  brothers 
in  South  Africa"  as  they  are  fancifully  described 
at  Exeter  Hall. 

So,  eventually,  Brebner  and  suite  were  allowed 
to  depart  upon  their  hash-settling  expedition. 
They  rode  out  one  pink  dawn  and  the  veld  swal- 
lowed them  up;  thereafter  peace  fell  upon  Salis- 
bury, and  all  talk  of  a  native  rising  was  dismissed. 
The  discussion  on  Hammond's  trousseau  was 
resumed  at  the  Club. 

Only  Hammond  himself  did  not  think  it  good 
enough  to  stay  on  with  his  bride  in  a  country 
which  seemed  to  him  unsettled  and  breathing  of 
war,  and  he  did  not  hesitate  to  state  his  intentions 
in  spite  of  jeers. 

"Why,  hello,  Marie!"  they  mocked  him  at 
the  Club,  and  quoted  remarks  from  the  Gads- 
bys: 


132  Wild  Honey 

"White  hands  cling  to  the  bridle  rein!" 

"You  may  carve  it  on  his  tombstone,  you  may  cut 

it  on  his  card, 

That    a    young    man    married    is    a    young    man 
marred,"  etc. 

"That's  all  right,"  laughed  Hammond  serenely. 
"But  I'll  take  a  year  off  for  my  honeymoon  just 
the  same,  and  you  fellows  can  put  things  straight 
with  the  niggers.  Afterwards,  I'll  come  back  and 
congratulate  you  and  bring  up  the  new  machinery 
for  the  Carissima." 

The  Carissima  Gold  Mine  belonged  to  Ham- 
mond and  Carr  and  Girder,  and  looked  like 
panning  out  wealth  untold  in  the  near  future. 

"Oh,  you're  crazy,  Marie,"  said  Billy  Blake, 
Head  of  the  Mounted  Police,  striving  to  be 
patient  with  the  renegade.  "Love  has  gone  to 
your  head.  There  isn't  going  to  be  any  row  with 
the  natives.  Compose  yourself,  my  son." 

Hammond  composed  himself  as  requested  in  a 
large  lounge  chair,  his  feet  on  another.  Leisurely, 
and  with  obvious  enjoyment  of  his  pipe  he  ex- 
plained that  in  his  opinion  Love  and  War  were 
each  good  and  great  and  highly  desirable  things, 
but  he  preferred  them  separate. 

"They  don't  mix,"  said  he;  "so  we'll  divide 


Common  or  Garden  Earth        133 

them  this  time.  You  can  have  the  war  all  to 
yourself,  Blake,  and  I'll—  '  he  flushed  under  his 
copper  skin  and  added  gravely,  for  he  made  and 
took  no  jests  on  the  subject  of  his  amazing  happi- 
ness, "It's  a  long  time  since  I've  seen  Kentucky 
—I'll  take  a  trip  home." 

"Oh,  you  ought  to  take  medicine,  Marie — 

"Take  a  rest " 

"Take  a  drink " 


"Man,  I  tell  you 

"Show  me  the  chief  of  these  tin-pot  Makalikas 
who  has  got  the  gall  to  fight — 

"Why,  you've  got  nerve  to  clear  out — 

They  clamoured  and  jeered  about  him,  but  he 
remained  cool.  His  personal  courage  was  too 
well  known  for  there  to  be  any  doubt  of  it.  He 
had  more  than  earned  his  laurels  as  the  most 
daring  of  scouts  in  the  Matabele  trouble  of  '93, 
and  many  another  "little  war,"  and  could  afford, 
if  so  inclined,  to  trim  himself  from  top  to  toe  with 
white  feathers  without  likelihood  of  being  mis- 
understood. So  he  left  them  to  wrangle  it  out 
among  themselves,  and  it  being  after  dinner  and  a 
whole  three  hours  and  a  half  since  he  last  saw 
Diane,  he  went  to  call  on  her  at  the  house  of  Mrs. 
Tony  Greville,  and  Boston,  as  usual,  slouched 
beside  him. 


134  Wild  Honey 

Now  Boston  as  a  dog  and  a  gentleman  deserves 
a  few  words  to  himself.  He  was  a  large,  dust- 
coloured  bull-terrier  whom  Hammond  had  raised 
from  puppyhood,  and  in  whose  muscular  carcass 
the  man  had  by  rigid  training  developed  many 
of  his  own  physical  characteristics — that  is  to 
say,  though  Boston  was  of  large  ungainly  build 
and  always  appeared  to  flounder  rather  than  to 
walk,  he  was  really  as  speedy  as  a  greyhound, 
brave  as  a  lion,  and  silent  in  his  movements  as 
Fate  herself.  He  could  track  down  anything, 
and  scout  with  the  best  man  in  the  country  (who 
happened  to  be  his  master),  but  he  spent  most 
of  his  time  tracking  that  same  master;  for  it  was 
one  of  the  practical  jokes  and  never-failing  joys 
of  Salisbury  to  hide  Hammond  from  his  dog. 
Boston  would  go  through  fire  and  water  to  regain 
his  love — even  the  great  Ice  Barrier  wouldn't 
have  stopped  him  long — but  the  moment  he  had 
Hammond  in  sight  he  would  assume  an  air  of 
cynical  indifference,  and  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  so  to  speak,  lounge  up  and  sling  himself 
down  with  a  weary  air  as  though  he'd  given  up 
all  idea  of  finding  what  he  was  searching  for, — 
certainly  not  Hammond  at  all !  As  for  Hammond, 
he  loved  his  dog  as  he  loved  few  men ;  it  is  doubtful 
whether,  if  asked  to  choose  between  Boston  and 


Common  or  Garden  Earth        135 

his  best  friend  for  company  in  exile,  he  would  have 
chosen  the  man. 

Knowing  full  well  for  what  destination  his 
master  was  now  bound,  Boston  presently  went 
ahead,  and  before  Hammond  had  reached  the 
house  of  Tony  Greville,  where  Miss  Heywood  was 
staying  because  Tony  Greville  was  Jack  Heywood's 
best  friend,  Boston  had  returned  to  report  that 
Miss  Heywood  was  not  in  her  usual  place  in  the 
verandah.  Neither  was  she  in  the  drawing-room ; 
and  search  by  the  servants  found  her  absent  also 
from  her  bedroom.  It  was  only  when  Boston 
set  his  blunt  nose  towards  the  Gymkhana  Ground 
that  Mrs.  Greville  remembered  to  have  seen 
Diane  strolling  off  in  that  direction  directly  after 
dinner. 

"She's  not  quite  herself  this  evening,  I  think, 
Marie.  There  were  a  lot  of  women  here  when 
she  got  in  from  her  ride  with  you,  and  I  fancy 
she  overheard  something  she  didn't  like.  That 
wretched  little  gossip  Mrs.  Skeffington  Smythe 
was  here." 

Mrs.  Greville  looked  a  little  anxiously  into  his 
face,  and  the  hard,  blue  eyes  looked  back  un- 
flinchingly, but  as  he  walked  swiftly  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Gym  Ground,  alone  and  with  his  mask 
off,  his  face  showed  signs  of  strain. 


136  Wild  Honey 

The  night  under  a  rising  moon  was  clear  as 
crystal,  and  he  had  no  difficulty  in  descrying 
Diane's  figure  across  the  course  where  he  and 
she  since  their  engagement  was  announced  (escap- 
ing for  a  little  while  from  an  army  of  friends) 
often  walked  in  the  evenings.  Some  of  their 
dearest  moments  had  been  passed  sitting  where 
she  now  sat  on  the  pile  of  heavy  timber  by  the 
Grand  Stand. 

Boston,  arrived  before  his  master,  sprawled 
at  Diane's  feet,  and  she  was  gazing  before  her  at 
the  moonlight  coming  up  in  waves  from  the  hori- 
zon, flooding  all  the  land  with  cold  silver  light. 
Something  colder  than  the  moonlight  gripped  the 
man's  heart  for  a  moment,  but  he  held  out  his 
hands  to  her  and  spoke  her  name  as  though  he  had 
nothing  to  fear.  She  stood  up  quickly  and  put  out 
her  hands  too — but  with  a  difference;  in  her  ges- 
ture there  was  a  subtle  suggestion  of  defence,  of 
warding  off  something — and  when  he  would  have 
taken  them  in  his,  she  drew  back. 

"No,  Marie — not  yet — there  is  something  you 
must  tell  me ' 

He  stared  at  her.  She  was  deadly  pale,  but 
the  moon  itself  was  not  more  composed,  and  her 
eyes  had  the  same  steady  glance  as  his  own.  Her 
question  was  spoken  in  a  very  low  voice. 


Common  or  Garden  Earth        137 

"Were  you  ever  in  love  with — another  man's 
wife?" 

His  face  darkened.  Prepared  as  he  was,  the 
unexpected  form  of  her  question  took  him  un- 
awares. He  had  anticipated  something  to  which 
he  could  give  a  firm,  clear  denial — but  to  this,  what 
could  he  say,  who  had  so  much  on  his  conscience! 

"  You  .  .  .  listening  to  scandal,  Diane!"  he 
said  at  last,  and  the  reproach  in  his  voice  reached 
home.  She  faltered  a  moment,  not  answering 
at  once,  and  they  stood  looking  at  each  other,  less 
like  lovers  than  two  duellists  measuring  each 
other's  strength. 

"I  will  believe  anything  you  tell  me,  Marie," 
she  said  gently,  at  last;  "I  ask  nothing  better  than 
to  hear  that  it  is  only  scandal." 

He  could  not  afford  to  hesitate  any  longer. 

"If  you  are  referring  to  my  friendship  with 
Mrs.  de  Rivas,  I  may  say  that  in  that  at  least  I  am 
innocent.  Her  husband  neglected  her;  I  was 
sorry  for  her;  our  so-called  friendship  was  a  con- 
certed plan  to  bring  him  to  his  senses,  and  it 
worked  like  magic.  They  are  now  extremely 
happy." 

But  he  had  waked  something  new  in  Diane 
Hey  wood;  she  looked  into  his  eyes  with  the  cold 
curiosity  of  a  child. 


138  Wild  Honey 

"Why  should  your  friendship  be  so  terrible  a 
thing  for  a  woman?  Why  should  it  bring  a  man 
to  his  senses?" 

"Oh,  dearest!  for  God's  -sake,  don't  ask  ques- 
tions the  answers  to  which  will  only  hurt  you? " 

"But  I  must  know,  Maryon,"  she  said  proudly. 
"I  have  never  lived  amongst  lies  and  shadows. 
Everything  must  be  clear  and  clean  about  me. 
If  you  are  innocent  in  this  matter — of  what  is  it 
then  that  you  are  guilty?" 

The  mad  longing  of  the  unshriven  soul  for  con- 
fession swept  over  him  then.  He  too  would  have 
all  clear  and  clean  about  him,  for  once  and  all, 
cost  what  it  might. 

"Oh,  just  of  being  a  blackguard,"  he  said,  and 
all  the  pent-up  bitterness,  and  self-mockery  and 
self-loathing  of  years  came  out  in  the  low-spoken 
words.  "Just  of  being  a  scoundrel  and  a  coward 
as  far  as  women  are  concerned — of  robbing,  loot- 
ing— taking  all  and  giving  nothing  in  return- 
playing  pirate  and  cut-throat  in  the  great  game 
of  love,  careless  of  what  anyone  suffered." 

"You!"  she  whispered.  "  You  whom  I  have 
looked  upon  as  a  knight  of  chivalry — a  Galahad — 
all  that  was  fine  and  noble!" 

"Oh!  Diane,  I  have  never  pretended  to  be 
any  of  these  things — never  wanted  you  to  believe 


Common  or  Garden  Earth        139 

it — I  am  only  common  earth — common  or  garden 
earth.  But  such  as  I  am,  I  love  you — I  ask  you 
to  take  me  with  all  my  sins." 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"  But  why,  Maryon?—  What  changed  you  from 
the  man  God  meant  you  to  be,  to  this?" 

She  loved  him.  For  all  her  wounded  pride 
and  anger  and  horror,  for  all  his  black  sins,  she 
loved  him,  as  women  will  love  through  everything, 
in  spite  of  everything;  and  she  longed  for  some 
word  of  extenuation  that  would  justify  the  for- 
giveness she  could  not  withhold. 

"I  loved  a  woman  years  ago,  and  she  was  faith- 
less. She  left  me  for  another  man.  My  wife 
ran  away  with  my  best  friend." 

"Your  wife?" 

"Yes.  Oh,  I  meant  to  tell  you  everything  be- 
fore you  married  me,  Diane — only,  I  was  putting 
it  off  as  long  as  possible.  I  left  America  because 
of  that,  and  came  out  to  this  country.  Then,  one 
day,  after  many  years,  I  found  myself  up  here 
living  next  door  to  the  very  man  and  woman  who 
had  been  false  to  me — for  whose  sake  I  had 
been  divorced  in  America  so  that  they  might 
marry  and  be  happy." 

"  Divorced?" 

"And  they  weren't  happy  after  all.     She  loved 


140  Wild  Honey 

him  but  he  was  neglecting  her,  and  she  turned 
to  me  again  for  help.  I  found  a  kind  of  cynical 
amusement  in  helping  her  out.  So  there  you  have 
the  whole  story,  Diane — not  a  pretty  one,  God 
knows,  but,  in  this  instance,  not  a  guilty  one  so 
far  as  I  am  concerned." 

But  the  girl  stood  stammering  at  him,  one  word 
on  her  lips.  "Divorced?" 

"You  must  believe  that  I  meant  to  conceal 
nothing  from  you,  Diane.  I  have  already  spoken 
to  de  Rivas  and  his  wife  and  told  them  that  you 
must  know — though  no  one  else  need  ever  sus- 
pect. And  if  you  choose  it,  if  you  will  still  take 
me  in  spite  of  my  sins — and,  darling,  I  believe  you 
will,  we'll  get  out  of  this  country  and  go  back  to 
my  own 

"But,  Maryon,"  she  broke  in,  despairingly, 
"you  do  not  seem  to  understand  that  this  ends 
everything  between  us.  I  am  a  Catholic — do 
you  not  realise ?" 

"A  Catholic?     I  don't  care  what  you  are — 

"But  don't  you  know  that  we  do  not  recog- 
nise divorce — that  in  my  eyes  you  are  still  her 
husband — will  be  her  husband  until  one  of  you 
dies?" 

It  was  he  who  stood  now  staring  and  stammer- 
ing. 


Common  or  Garden  Earth        141 

"You  would  let  your  religion  come  between 
us — separate  us?" 

"Oh,  Maryon — my  religion  is  me —  It  is  what 
I  feel  myself — it  is  deep  in  me.  One  cannot  escape 
from  what  one  has  felt  and  believed  all  one's  life." 

"But  the  thing  is  impossible,"  he  cried  wildly, 
fiercely;  "I  cannot  lose  you.  You  must  leave 
your  religion — What  does  a  good  woman  want 
with  religion? — Our  Love  shall  be  your  religion — 
/  will  be  your  religion — I  will  never  let  you  go." 

"Hush,  Marie,  you  don't  know  what  you  are 
saying,"  she  said  gently.  "We  must  part.  I 
can  never,  never  marry  you." 

And  despite  her  gentleness  she  stood  like  rock 
against  the  battery  of  his  words,  though  he  rea- 
soned, pleaded,  beguiled,  even  cursed,  in  his  pain 
and  wrath.  Her  heart  turned  to  water,  she  was 
sick  with  love  and  pity  for  him,  but  through  all 
she  clung  to  her  faith  as  a  sailor  might  cling  to  a 
rock  in  a  blinding,  wrecking  storm.  For  nothing 
he  could  say  could  she  contemplate  treachery 
to  her  people,  her  life-long  principles,  her  God. 
Not  so  does  the  Catholic  Church  train  its  daughter 
against  the  hour  of  temptation. 

When  at  last  in  the  bitter  madness  of  defeat 
and  loss  he  caught  and  crushed  her  in  his  arms, 
kissing  her  savagely,  she  stayed  silent,  too  proud 


142  Wild  Honey 

to  struggle  in  those  iron  arms,  but  cold,  cold  as 
snow;  until  at  last  the  cold  purity  of  her  pene- 
trated him  like  a  lance  of  ice,  piercing  his  heart. 

"Forgive  me! — forgive  me,  Diane — I  am  a 
brute — I  am  mad!"  he  muttered,  and  stumbled 
away  into  the  night. 

After  a  night  of  drenching  rain,  the  camp  out 
at  the  Carissima  Mine  lay  sparkling  in  the  morning 
sunshine.  It  was  five  A.M.  with  the  promise  of 
a  golden  day.  Birds  were  twittering  in  tree  and 
bush  and  wet  leaves  flickered  and  twinkled  like 
diamonds,  throwing  off  a  myriad  points  of  light. 
From  the  thatched  roofs  of  the  half  dozen  large 
huts  in  the  clearing,  steam  arose,  mingling  with 
the  blue  spirals  from  newly  kindled  fires. 

Hammond  dressing  leisurely  in  his  hut  looked 
out  through  his  open  door  and  the  beauty  and 
promise  of  the  day  seemed  to  take  him  by  the 
throat,  for  he  turned  away  from  it  with  a  face 
darkened  and  convulsed. 

"God!  What  a  day!"  he  groaned  as  a  man 
might  groan  who  has  had  a  knife  jabbed  into 
him.  For  it  is  thus  that  Nature  hunts  and  hurts 
those  who  loving  her  are  yet  a  law  unto  themselves. 
Since  he  had  lost  Diane,  all  beautiful  things  struck 
at  him  with  wounding,  hurtful  hands. 


Common  or  Garden  Earth        143 

He  had  a  sudden  longing  to  let  work  go  to  the 
deuce  for  that  day,  to  take  horse  and  his  desolate 
heart  away  to  some  lonely  wild  place  where  he 
could  be  absolutely  alone,  unobliged  to  speak  or  be 
spoken  to  by  any ;  but  he  knew  that  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  think  of  such  a  thing.  Girder  and  he  were 
the  only  white  men  in  the  camp,  and  he  could  not 
leave  all  the  work  to  Girder.  The  Mine  Manager 
had  been  laid  low  by  fever,  and  the  sub-manager 
had  taken  the  Cape  cart  and  driven  off  with  him 
the  night  before  to  Salisbury  Hospital.  As  for 
Carr,  he  had  been  away  on  business  for  some  days 
in  the  Lomagundi  district. 

It  behoved  Hammond  to  get  his  breakfast  over 
and  start  for  the  native  compound.  There  was 
a  matter  of  three  hundred  boys  or  so  to  round 
up  and  hustle  to  their  labours  down  the  shaft. 
He  threw  a  glance  round  for  his  boots,  a  special 
pair  he  kept  for  negotiating  the  wet  sloppy  clay 
at  the  bottom  of  the  mine,  and,  seeing  them  no- 
where, whistled  for  his  body  servant. 

"My  mine  boots,  Pongo,"  he  jerked  in  the 
vernacular  at  the  sleek-eyed  Mashona  who  an- 
swered his  signal.  It  transpired  that  the  boots 
had  been  forgotten  and  were  still  in  the  saddle- 
hut  covered  with  the  dust  and  mud  of  yesterday! 
After  receiving  Hammond's  comments  on  the 


144  Wild  Honey 

subject,  Pongo  disappeared  in  a  hurry  to  fulfil 
his  neglected  task. 

"And  tell  Candle  to  rustle  with  my  breakfast," 
roared  Pongo 's  lord  like  a  lion  in  pain,  and  Candle 
at  the  sound  did  not  need  telling,  but  rustled  to 
such  good  effect  that  in  five  minutes  breakfast 
stood  steaming  on  the  rough  wooden  table  that 
was  pitched  under  a  tree  in  the  middle  of  the 
clearing.  Girder  very  spick  and  span  in  white 
moleskins  emerged  from  another  hut,  and  Ham- 
mond, dressed  all  but  his  boots,  and  impatient 
of  waiting,  thrust  his  feet  into  a  pair  of  silk 
slippers  sent  him  at  Christmas  by  his  sister  (and 
brought  out  by  accident  to  the  camp)  and  strolled 
out  to  join  his  friend  at  the  table. 

The  three  partners  had  been  in  camp  for  nearly 
six  weeks.  After  that  night  on  the  Gymkhana 
Ground,  Salisbury  had  no  further  hold  for  Ham- 
mond and  he  left  the  next  morning,  accompanied 
by  Carr,  grave  and  unquestioning,  and  followed  a 
day  or  two  later  by  Girder.  He  had  never  opened 
his  lips  on  the  subject  of  his  changed  plans,  and  he 
did  not  need  to.  Carr  knew  that  the  trouble  was 
deep,  and  guessed  the  cause.  Later,  Girder  brought 
the  news  of  the  broken  engagement  as  briefly  an- 
nounced by  Jack  Heywood  with  whom  Hammond 
had  encompassed  a  short  interview  before  leaving. 


Common  or  Garden  Earth        145 

With  the  exception  of  a  remark  or  two  on  the 
subject  of  the  storm  during  the  night,  the  two  men 
took  their  breakfast  in  silence.  Girder  was  at 
no  time  a  talkative  fellow,  and,  of  late,  Hammond's 
mood  seldom  invited  gaiety.  This  morning  he 
had  not  yet  recovered  from  the  savage  misery 
that  had  smitten  him  in  his  hut,  and  still  pre- 
occupied was  not  his  usual  observant  self,  or  he 
would  have  noticed  something  unnatural  in  the 
atmosphere  of  the  camp. 

About  three  hundred  yards  off  from  where  they 
were  sitting,  a  construction  of  heavy  beams  form- 
ing a  rough  hauling  gear  marked  the  mine's 
mouth,  with  the  power-house  and  a  number  of 
small  shanties  grouped  beside  it.  Beyond,  and 
almost  hidden  by  this  group  of  buildings  was  the 
kraal  or  compound  occupied  by  the  natives  who 
worked  the  mine.  It  was  merely  the  usual 
collection  of  fifty  or  more  rough  dagga  huts  with 
thatched  roofs  drooping  almost  to  the  ground  and 
lop-sided  like  a  lot  of  old  battered  straw  hats,  sur- 
rounded by  a  high  dagga  wall ;  and  from  it  came 
the  usual  morning  sound  peculiar  to  Kaffir  kraals — 
a  low  humming  sing-song  of  voices,  with  an  occa- 
sional tap  or  boom  on  a  vessel  of  metal  or  skin. 
What  Hammond  should  have  noticed  and  did  not, 
was  that  his  natives  were  humming  a  war-song — 


10 


146  Wild  Honey 

one  of  those  monotonous  chants,  flat  and  un- 
musical, yet  full  of  some  hidden  power  to  stir  the 
blood  of  a  savage  to  dreams  of  reeking  assegai 
and  the  crashing  thud  of  knobkerry  upon  skull. 
The  few  "boys"  loitering  among  the  white  men's 
huts,  all  personal  servants,  cast  furtive  glances 
tinged  with  surprise  at  the  indifferent  faces  of 
the  white  men.  Certainly  Inkos  Girder  was  but 
a  new  hand — only  a  year  or  two  in  Africa;  but 
Inkos  Hammond  was  an  induna1  who  knew  all 
things,  and  had  fought  in  many  Kaffir  wars! 
Clk  !  Surely  he  must  hear  that  song  in  the  kraal 
and  know  its  meaning ! 

Hammond  indeed  would  probably  have  waked 
in  a  moment  to  a  sense  of  something  wrong,  but, 
as  it  happened,  his  attention  was  suddenly  averted 
by  the  sight  of  a  man  on  horseback  tearing  full- 
tilt  towards  the  camp. 

"What  the-     -  ?" 

"Who  the  -  -  ?"  They  both  stood  up  as  the 
horse  came  clattering  into  the  clearing,  and  its 
rider  gasping  and  haggard  flung  himself  down. 
He  was  one  of  de  Rivas'  assistants  out  at  the 
Green  Carnation  Mine — a  young  Scotchman 
called  Dent,  well  known  to  them  both. 

"The   natives   are   'up.'      They've    murdered 

1  Chief;  captain. 


147 


everyone  in  our  district  except  de  Rivas  and  his 
wife,"  he  burst  forth.  "You  fellows  had  better 
get  your  horses  and  scoot  for  Mazoe  before ." 

"Steady,  Dent,"  said  Hammond  in  a  voice 
like  cold  steel.  At  the  first  mention  of  trouble, 
he  had  thrown  his  eye  around  and  in  a  flash  heard 
and  seen  the  danger  signals  about  him — his  ser- 
vants' faces,  the  timbre  of  the  song  in  the  kraal, 
the  sudden  dead  silence  which,  with  the  horse- 
man's coming  had  fallen  on  camp  and  kraal,  and 
— the  rustle  of  feet  creeping  up  behind  the  mine- 
head  shanties! 

"Pull  yourself  together.  My  boys  are  observ- 
ing you.  Get  your  revolver  from  your  hut, 
Girder,  and  all  the  ammunition  you  can  lay  hands 
on,  but  keep  them  out  of  sight."  (He  had  his 
own  revolver  on  him — too  wise  a  citizen  of  Africa 
ever  to  be  without  it.)  "Sit  down,  my  dear 
fellow,"  he  now  added  heartily  to  Dent,  and 
called  for  fresh  coffee,  sitting  down  himself  too, 
but  with  his  face  towards  the  mine-head.  Girder 
coming  back  casually  from  his  hut  resumed  his 
chair.  Speaking  in  an  ordinary  voice,  smoking, 
and  pouring  out  coffee,  Hammond  questioned  the 
Scotchman  and  elicited  facts. 

The  natives  had  set  to  work  at  four  o'clock  that 
morning,  and  systematically  visiting  every  farm, 


148  Wild  Honey 

hut,  and  tent  within  the  district  had  butchered 
the  surprised  and  defenceless  occupants.  Every- 
one at  the  Green  Carnation  taken  unawares  had 
been  knobkerried  or  assegaied  to  death — except  de 
Rivas  and  his  wife  who  got  warning  in  time  to 
barricade  themselves  in  their  ranch.  Dent  had 
been  with  them  and  the  two  men  had  managed 
to  drive  the  demons  off  for  a  time,  but  it  was 
certain  that  they  would  return.  In  the  circum- 
stances, de  Rivas  had  ordered  Dent  to  try  and  get 
away  by  means  of  an  old  mine  working  that  came 
right  up  close  to  the  back  verandah  of  the  house 
and  bring  help  to  them,  for  Mrs.  de  Rivas  was  a 
sick  woman  and  could  not  travel  any  distance 
except  in  comfort,  and  well  protected. 

"They  can't  last  out  long,"  finished  Dent 
dismally.  "Half  their  ammunition  is  gone — Mrs. 
de  Rivas  is  in  hysterics  most  of  the  time — if  I 
don't  get  help  they'll  be  done  for  in  a  few  hours 
— I  must  push  on  to  Mazoe  and— 

His  sentence  was  broken  off  by  the  smart  snap 
of  a  revolver.  Hammond  was  firing  across 
Girder's  shoulder,  not  once  but  many  times. 

Snap — phit  !  Snap — pht  I  Snap — pht  !  And 
the  grim  eyes  of  the  man  behind  the  revolver 
snapped  and  flashed  too,  as  he  picked  off  one 
after  another  of  those  who  led  the  advancing 


Common  or  Garden  Earth        149 

horde.  In  less  time  than  it  takes  to  write  it, 
five  of  the  leaders  were  groaning  in  the  dust, 
and  the  murderous  band  behind  had  fallen  back 
dumbfounded,  staring  like  fascinated  rabbits  at 
the  man  who  now  advanced  on  them  still  covering 
them  with  that  gleaming  deadly  revolver  and  his 
ice-cold  deadly  glance.  At  last,  he  flung  them  a 
few  brief  words  in  their  own  tongue. 

"  Get  down  to  your  work  in  the  mine.  Anyone 
who  loiters  will  be  shot — like  these  things  here." 

They  gazed  at  the  "things"  for  a  silent  moment, 
then  cringing  before  the  white  man  like  the  dogs 
they  were,  they  dropped  assegais  and  knob- 
kerries  in  the  dust  and  retreated  sullenly,  step 
by  step,  to  the  mine  mouth.  Girder  close  behind 
Hammond,  opened  the  little  gate  leading  to  the 
enclosure  round  the  shaft  and  hustled  half  a  dozen 
boys  into  the  power-house  to  set  the  cage  going. 
Then,  one  by  one,  with  downcast  looks  and  modest 
mien  the  boys  filed  into  the  cage  and  were  lowered 
in  little  companies  down  the  mine.  Hammond 
stood  by  silent,  dominating,  the  sunshine  glinting 
on  his  revolver  barrel,  Boston,  casual  and  indiffer- 
ent, lounging  beside  him.  The  two  other  men, 
unobliged  even  to  draw  their  guns,  contented 
themselves  with  speeding  up  an  occasional  loiterer 
by  means  of  a  brisk  application  of  the  boot.  In 


150  Wild  Honey 

the  end,  every  "boy"  of  three  hundred  was  at 
the  bottom  of  the  shaft,  except  those  in  the 
power-house.  Hammond  approached  them. 

"You  too — get  in,"  he  remarked  briefly,  and 
they  got  in,  humble  and  sleek,  with  air  depreca- 
tive of  giving  so  much  trouble.  Dent  and  Girder 
took  possession  of  the  power-house  and  worked  the 
cage,  for  as  is  well  known,  two  white  men  can  do 
the  work  of  six  natives  any  day  in  the  week. 
Afterwards  they  cut  the  steel  ropes  that  held  the 
cage  and  it  fell  crashing  to  the  bottom  of  the  shaft. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Hammond  at  last. 
"They've  plenty  of  water,  and  a  couple  of  days 
with  empty  stomachs  will  take  the  cheek  out  of 
them.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  if  all  goes  well, 
we'll  be  here  to  let  'em  up  again — if  not,  so  much 
the  worse  for  them." 

"The  blessed  tinkers!"  was  all  that  Girder 
permitted  himself  to  remark. 

"Now  you  fellows,"  said  Hammond  briskly, 
"take  your  horses  and  beat  it  for  Mazoe,  hell- 
for-leather.  Get  a  party  together — half  a  dozen 
guns  and  make  for  the  Green  Carnation.  I  shall 
go  on  ahead  and  help  de  Rivas  hold  out." 

"I'm  coming  with  you,"  said  Girder  carelessly. 
Hammond  looked  at  him  coldly. 

"You  will  kindly  do  as  I  ask  you,  Bill.     If  you 


Common  or  Garden  Earth        151 

meet  trouble  between  here  and  Mazoe,  as  you 
probably  will,  and  one  of  you  is  potted,  there  is 
still  a  chance  of  the  other  getting  in  to  give  the 
alarm." 

Girder  merely  smiled.  Hammond  knew  that 
obstinate  smile,  and  he  also  knew  there  was  no 
time  to  lose. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Bill,"  he  said  brusquely. 
"We  are  not  in  this  for  glory,  or  fun,  or  friendship. 
Just  remember  there's  a  woman  in  the  matter, 
will  you? — a  sick  woman.  What  you  two  fellows 
have  got  to  do — or  one  or  other  of  you — is  to  get 
together  a  big  enough  party  to  convey  her  in  a 
cart  to  Mazoe.  If  you  are  delayed  you  will 
probably  find  when  you  reach  us  that  we  have 
left  the  ranch  and  taken  to  the  bush.  The  house 
won't  be  safe  once  the  ammunition  has  given  out 
— and  I  know  the  country  all  round  there  like 
the  palm  of  my  hand.  There  are  plenty  of  places 
we  can  lie  doggo  in  until  help  comes.  But  you 
must  get  help,  and  get  it  quick.  Take  the  fresh 
horses,  you've  farther  to  go  than  I.  I'll  take 
Dent's.  Go  on  now,  Bill.  Don't  be  pig-headed 
— and  take  charge  of  Boston  will  you?  I  don't 
want  him  with  me.  Where  is  the  beggar?" 

No  one  knew.  A  moment  before  he  had  been 
lounging  idly  against  the  power-house,  his  tongue 


152  Wild  Honey 

lolloping  from  his  mouth,  his  eye  expressing  bore- 
dom; a  moment  later  he  simply  was  not.  It  is 
hard  to  say  what  instinct  had  bidden  him  make 
himself  scarce  in  a  manner  as  swift  and  unobtru- 
sive as  possible,  and  turn  into  a  motionless,  sand- 
coloured  ant-heap  about  fifty  yards  from  the  road 
down  which  anyone  leaving  camp  must  pass. 
No  one  had  time  to  look  for  him  and  no  one 
would  have  found  him  in  any  case.  Hammond 
let  loose  a  bad  word,  gave  Girder's  hand  a  parting 
grip,  and  skimmed  out  of  camp  on  Dent's  horse. 

Within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  Green  Carna- 
tion, he  dismounted,  and,  leaving  the  horse  in  the 
bush,  advanced  under  cover  and  with  great  caution 
towards  the  ranch.  It  was  then  that  the  rough 
rocky  ground  and  thorns  under  foot  brought  him 
the  realisation  that  he  was  still  wearing  the  pair 
of  silk  slippers  made  and  sent  him  by  his  sister 
for  a  Christmas  present. 

It  was  a  little  dell-like  place — not  more  than  ten 
feet  by  six,  hollowed  out  by  the  heavy  streams 
that  in  bad  weather  came  rushing  down  the  slopes 
of  the  kopje  above  it,  darkened  by  the  thick  bush 
all  round,  full  of  small  sharp  stones  and  thorns,  and 
red  ants  that  stung  like  wasps,  with  not  a  single 
smooth  tree  trunk  or  flat  rock  to  lean  against. 


Common  or  Garden  Earth        153 

Still,  it  was  a  hiding-place;  and  to  three  people  it 
had  been  for  as  many  days,  a  haven  and  a  home. 
Three  people — to  say  nothing  of  the  dog ! 

It  was  indeed  Boston  who  lay  in  one  of  those 
triangular  positions  which  only  a  dog  can  find 
reposeful,  his  head  on  a  stone,  his  tongue  lolling 
languorously  from  his  mouth,  one  eye  closed,  the 
other  cocked  on  his  master.  For  Hammond  seated 
uneasefully  upon  a  small  rock,  his  arms  round  his 
knees,  his  empty  pipe  in  his  mouth,  was  plainly 
busy  on  an  intricate  problem,  and  Boston  too  was 
interested  in  the  solution  of  that  problem. 

Close  beside  them,  touching  feet  with  Ham- 
mond and  the  dog,  de  Rivas  half-lay,  half-leaned 
in  the  cramped  space,  painfully  shifting  his 
wounded  leg  every  few  minutes.  Between  his 
lips  was  a  thick  white  mimosa  thorn  which  he 
bit  on  when  he  shifted,  as  a  wounded  soldier  might 
bite  on  a  bullet  to  keep  in  his  trouble.  Mrs.  de 
Rivas  lay  sleeping  on  the  men's  folded  coats. 

"Well — what  next,  Hammond?"  asked  de  Rivas 
in  a  whisper.  They  had  been  obliged  to  whis- 
per for  days;  the  natives  were  all  round  them 
in  the  bush,  searching;  but  Hammond  had 
chosen  his  retreat  well,  and  the  odds  were  against 
discovery  so  long  as  they  lit  no  fires  and  were  not 
heard  talking.  It  was  characteristic  of  the  man, 


154  Wild  Honey 

however,  that  this  business  of  whispering  annoyed 
him  more  than  any  of  the  risks  and  hardships 
of  the  past  few  days.  To  have  to  whisper  on  ac- 
count of  a  lot  of  murdering  niggers!—  When  all 
he  wanted  was  to  get  out  and  beat  the  brains  out 
of  a  score  of  them — and  he  would  too  if— 

Mrs.  de  Rivas  gave  a  little  moan  in  her  sleep. 
So  he  whispered,  in  spite  of  his  fierce  desires. 

"I  shall  start  for  Salisbury  to-night." 

"  Salisbury !— on  foot  ? ' ' 

"It's  no  use  trying  Mazoe.  Something's  gone 
wrong  there  or  Girder  would  have  been  back  by 
now." 

"But  Salisbury  is  seventy  miles!" 

"Sixty  when  you  know  your  map." 

"Well,  sixty! — without  food!  And  you've  got 
no  boots!" 

It  was  no  use  offering  his  own.  He  was  a  big 
man  and  his  feet  were  on  a  generous  scale.  As 
for  Hammond,  he  could  not  forbear  to  smile  when 
he  looked  at  the  travesties  from  which  his  toes 
protruded — a  few  rags  and  ribbons  of  dark  blue 
silk. 

"No;  but  I've  got  feet." 

He  had  indeed — the  most  famous  feet  at  Har- 
vard in  his  time,  and  in  Africa  at  any  time.  All 
the  same,  he  cursed  himself  for  criminal  carelessness 


Common  or  Garden  Earth        155 

in  leaving  his  camp  improperly  shod;  for  he  too 
knew  that  sixty  miles  barefoot  through  an  enemy's 
country,  over  krantz  and  kop  and  rough  unbroken 
ground,  was  not  going  to  be  the  funniest  thing 
that  had  ever  happened  to  him.  Still,  they 
couldn't  sit  whispering  here  forever,  and  Cara 
de  Rivas  had  got  to  be  saved. 

She  had  stood  the  strain  well  up  till  now,  but 
it  was  doubtful  if  she  would  last  out  much  longer. 
And  she  must  not  die.  No  woman  in  the  same 
case  would  be  allowed  to  die  if  he  could  help  it. 
But  only  he  knew  the  stain  and  disgrace  it  would 
be  on  him  to  let  her  of  all  women  die,  whose  death 
would  give  him  his  heart's  desire. 

When  de  Rivas  spoke  again,  his  whisper  had 
grown  fainter.  His  thoughts  appeared  to  have 
taken  the  same  direction  as  Hammond's. 

"How  am  I  going  to  keep  her  alive,  Hammond? 
She  can't  go  on  without  water." 

"  I  shall  fill  the  can  before  I  start,  and  you  must 
try  and  make  it  spin  out  for  three  days.  I  pro- 
mise you  I  shan't  be  longer  than  that." 

Fortunately  they  had  thought  to  bring  a  can 
with  them  in  their  hurried  escape  from  the  ranch, 
and  Hammond  stole  out  every  night  and  rilled 
it  from  the  river  not  two  hundred  yards  away. 
De  Rivas'  wounded  leg  entirely  incapacitated  him 


156  Wild  Honey 

from  doing  anything ;  Hammond  had  been  obliged 
to  carry  him  more  than  half  the  way  on  the  night 
of  their  flight. 

"Three  days ! "  de  Rivas  was  thinking  to  himself. 
"He  can  never  do  it  even  if  he  had  boots!" 

Three  days  was  too  short  a  time  in  which  to  walk 
to  Salisbury  and  bring  back  help.  Three  days 
was  only  long  when  contemplated  from  the  point 
of  view  of  a  man  whose  larder  is  empty,  and  whose 
death  lurks  in  the  shadows. 

"What  am  I  going  to  give  her  to  eat?" 

"I've  thought  of  that  too,"  said  Hammond 
quietly.  The  other  man  looked  up  question- 
ingly.  The  problem  of  provisions  had  been  a 
haunting  one  ever  since  they  arrived  in  their 
refuge.  If  Hammond  had  a  solution  to  it  now, 
why  not  before?  But  Hammond  was  apparently 
not  inclined  to  be  communicative.  He  merely 
sat  there  staring  at  Boston ;  and  Boston  as  though 
suddenly  aware  of  something  personal  in  his 
master's  attention  rose  suddenly,  and  in  his  silent, 
floundering  way  came  over  and  laid  his  nose  on 
Hammond's  knee.  Hammond  after  a  moment 
or  so  raised  the  dog's  head  in  his  hands  and  looked 
into  the  golden  brown  eyes,  tender  and  trustful 
as  a  woman's,  far  more  trustworthy  than  many 
women's.  Then,  for  Maryon  Hammond,  he 


Common  or  Garden  Earth        157 

did  a  strange  thing;  he  bent  his  head  and  kissed 
his  dog's  nose.  De  Rivas  bit  suddenly  on  the 
thorn  between  his  lips,  and  looked  away.  He 
had  seen  Hammond's  eyes,  and  it  is  not  good  to 
see  the  eyes  of  a  strong  man  in  pain.  He  knew  now 
what  Hammond  meant  to  do  to  keep  him  and  his 
wife  alive  during  the  next  three  days. 

When  Cara  de  Rivas  awoke  from  her  long  sleep 
of  exhaustion  it  was  dusk,  and  she  found  herself 
alone  with  her  husband  in  the  dell.  She  crept 
to  his  side  and  kissed  him  with  a  whispered  in- 
quiry for  the  pain  of  his  wound.  Then : 

"Where  is  Mary  on?" 

Unfalteringly,  without  the  flicker  of  an  eyelid, 
de  Rivas  repeated  the  lesson  in  which  Hammond 
had  instructed  him. 

"He  has  gone  to  get  water — and  Cara, — he  has 
had  a  great  stroke  of  luck — got  a  buck  in  a  kind  of 
primitive  trap  he  fixed  up  last  night.  We  shall 
have  meat  for  several  days." 

"Meat — but  no  fire  /"  she  said,  a  little  spasm 
of  horror  contracting  her  weary  face.  He  put  his 
arm  round  her. 

"Dearest,  this  isn't  the  time  to  be  squeamish 
— for  my  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  our  little  kid 
to  come — just  think  of  it  as  sustenance — close  your 
eyes  and  get  it  down.  Lots  of  sick  people  have  to 


158  Wild  Honey 

eat  raw  meat  by  order,  and  think  nothing  of  it. 
And  thank  Hammond — don't  forget  to  thank 
Hammond  before  he  goes,  for — all  he  has  done 
for  us." 

"Before  he  goes?"  she  cried  with  frightened 
eyes.  "Where?  Why?" 

Gently,  with  more  confidence  in  his  words 
than  in  his  heart,  he  explained  Hammond's  plan 
to  her,  and  her  eyes  brightened.  She  had  faith 
in  Maryon's  plans;  they  always  "came  off." 
And  it  would  be  only  three  days!  It  was  a  long 
time — but  Marie  would  come  back  with  help, 
and  they  would  both  he  saved. 

Suddenly,  without  a  sound  of  his  coming, 
Hammond  was  with  them,  carrying  the  can  of 
water,  and  something  wrapped  in  long  fresh  grass. 
Immediately  Cara  cried: 

"Boston?     Where  is  Boston,  Marie?" 

"I  parted  with  him  down  by  the  river,"  said 
Hammond,  adding  after  a  moment:  "He  is  busy 
with  part  of  the  buck  I  got." 

He  did  not  speak  for  a  long  time  after  that, 
seeming  very  intent  on  what  he  was  doing — tear- 
ing the  sleeves  of  his  coat  in  strips  to  bind  round 
his  feet.  His  shirt  had  been  used  up  for  de  Rivas* 
wound.  After  he  had  finished  this,  the  only 


Common  or  Garden  Earth        159 

preparation  for  his  journey,  he  sat  talking  cheer- 
fully to  Cara  for  awhile,  asking  for  messages  for 
friends  in  Salisbury,  and  inviting  her  to  choose 
the  men  she  wanted  for  her  "relief  patrol."  Hardly 
in  keeping  with  these  gay  whispers  were  his  words 
in  de  Rivas'  off  ear,  as  he  thrust  his  revolver  into 
de  Rivas'  off  pocket. 

"I'll  take  yours  instead.  It  may  serve  to  smash 
a  skull  with,  at  a  pinch." 

Now  de  Rivas'  revolver  was  empty;  it  was 
Hammond's  that  contained  the  one  cartridge  for 
a  certain  emergency — the  frightful  emergency 
which  all  brave  men  who  take  charge  of  women 
in  a  savage  country  must  be  willing  to  face!  But 
Cara,  whom  this  little  incident  chiefly  concerned, 
knew  nothing  of  it.  Almost  light-heartedly  she 
bade  Hammond  farewell,  thanking  him  as  her 
husband  had  told  her  for  all  he  had  done,  far 
from  knowing  how  much  that  was,  and  how 
much  it  might  be  before  the  end. 

At  the  last,  de  Rivas  held  out  his  hand  and  said 
hoarsely : 

"If  you  don't  mind  shaking,  Marie — and  saying 
you  forgive  me?" 

It  was  the  first  time  since  he  stole  Maryon 
Hammond's  wife  that  he  had  used  the  name  that 
once  in  college  days  was  sweet  between  them.  He 


160  Wild  Honey 

would  harldy  have  dared  now,  but  somehow  he 
felt  he  owed  it  to  Hammond's  generosity  to  dare, 
if  only  to  let  the  other  man  smite  him  with  the 
just  word  of  wrath.  But  Hammond  took  his 
hand.  They  were  all  in  the  shadow  of  death. 

"And  me  too,  Marie?"  whispered  the  woman 
through  her  tears. 

"That's  all  right,  Cara, "  he  said  gently,  taking 
hers  in  turn.  A  moment  later  he  had  gone  upon 
his  way. 

In  the  Salisbury  laager,  which  was  the  Salisbury 
prison  put  into  a  state  of  defence,  with  sand-bags 
and  waggons  all  round  it  and  machine  guns  pitched 
on  every  eminence,  the  air  was  charged  with 
gloom  and  rage.  It  was  not  because  of  war; 
Rhodesians  after  '93  were  inured  to  war  and 
had  learned  to  accept  philosophically  its  bitters 
with  its  sweets.  What  hurt  them  now  was  that 
this  was  not  war,  but  black  murder.  There  had 
been  no  decent  open  fighting — only  secret,  savage 
murder  of  men  and  women  in  far  places.  Murder 
— and  worse!  Men  bit  their  mouths  close  on 
revolting  stories  that  it  would  do  no  good  for 
the  women  to  hear;  and  women  came  into  laager, 
night  after  night,  white-faced  and  sick  of  heart. 
The  whole  country  was  "up"  in  rebellion,  but 


Common  or  Garden  Earth        161 

except  in  Matabeleland  there  had  been  no  actual 
fighting.  Overwhelming  small  isolated  bands 
of  men  cannot  be  called  fighting — but  it  was  the 
nearest  approach  to  it  that  the  Mashonas  had 
made.  That  was  what  they  had  attempted  in 
the  case  of  the  Mazoe  patrol.  On  hearing  that 
there  had  been  wholesale  slaughter  at  Mazoe, 
and  that  the  survivors  (mostly  women  and 
children)  were  huddled  in  a  house  waiting  for  the 
end,  twenty-six  picked  men  had  ridden  out  from 
Salisbury  to  the  rescue.  They  had  reached 
Mazoe  just  in  time — and  getting  the  women, 
children,  and  wounded  men  into  a  waggon  pro- 
tected by  sheets  of  corrugated  iron,  set  out  on 
the  return  march  to  Salisbury.  These  twenty- 
six  men  had  had  to  fight  every  inch  of  the  way 
with  thousands  of  natives,  but  not  one  dead  or 
wounded  man  of  the  gallant  band  was  left  by 
the  wayside.  As  they  fell,  their  comrades  picked 
them  up  and  thrust  them  into  the  waggon,  and 
thus  in  some  wise  or  another  came  back  one  and 
every  man  of  the  famous  patrol! 

Carr  with  an  arm  shot  off  and  his  horse  shot 
under  him,  was  one  of  those  who  had  to  lie  help- 
less and  raging  amongst  the  women — raging  be- 
cause he  knew  nothing  of  the  fate  of  his  best 
friend!  All  that  he  knew  was  that  the  bodies 


162  Wild  Honey 

of  Girder  and  Dent  had  been  found  on  the  out- 
skirts of  Mazoe.  One  of  the  Carissima  boys  was 
reported  to  have  stated  that  Hammond  had  gone 
to  the  help  of  the  de  Rivas.  But  it  was  now 
known  that  de  Rivas'  place  was  burnt  to  the 
ground  and  not  a  living  soul  left  at  the  Green 
Carnation.  Small  wonder  that  the  bitterness  of 
Carr's  heart  was  as  the  bitterness  of  the  heart 
of  Job  in  the  last  stage  of  his  torment ! 

It  was  now  generally  believed  that  everyone 
in  the  mining  districts  who  had  not  managed  to 
escape  at  the  first  alarm  to  Salisbury  was  of  the 
doomed  and  dead.  Diane  Hey  wood  looked  into 
Bernard  Carr's  eyes  and  saw  that  belief  there 
and  her  face  took  a  deeper  shadow  upon  it.  From 
the  first  entry  of  wounded  refugees,  she  had  offered 
her  services  to  the  good  nursing  nuns,  and  striven 
in  ardent  labour  and  many  a  weary  vigil  to  dull 
her  heart's  fierce  pain.  When  once  she  and  Can- 
had  read  each  other's  misery  he  forgave  her  for 
what  she  had  done  to  Hammond  (though  he 
knew  not  what  it  was),  and  they  were  friends  for 
ever  after.  She  was  often  by  his  bedside,  reading 
sometimes,  or  talking  a  little,  but  more  often 
both  were  silent,  thinking  of  what  they  dared  not 
speak. 

Oh!  to  see  his  eyes  again!     To  know  that  he 


Common  or  Garden  Earth        163 

was  still  on  God's  fair  earth! — not  cut  down, 
beaten  to  his  knees  with  knobkerries,  assegaied 
by  foul  cowardly  brutes  whose  courage  was  only  in 
their  numbers !  Only  to  know  that  he  had  had  a 
fair  chance — out  in  the  open  with  a  gun  in  his  hand, 
not  trapped  in  a  hut  as  so  many  had  been!  But 
all  that  had  happened  at  the  Carissima  remained 
dark  and  unknown ;  and  the  mystery  of  its  fate  lay 
heavy  on  the  hearts  of  those  in  Salisbury  laager. 

Then  late  one  afternoon  shouts  on  the  clear 
April  air!  Shouts  and  cries,  hoots  and  yells  of 
triumph  from  afar — nearer,  nearer,  until  right 
at  the  laager  gates;  then  crowds  of  men  rushing 
in,  all  thrusting,  heaving,  shoving  to  be  near  a 
central  figure — someone  being  borne  high  on 
men's  shoulders! 

Diane,  standing  in  the  verandah  of  the  gaoler's 
house  where  Carr  lay  sick,  shaded  her  eyes  with 
her  hand  to  see  better  through  the  sunset  rays. 
They  were  calling  Hammond's  name — but  was 
that  Mary  on  Hammond? — that  haggard,  tattered 
wreck,  brown  with  dirt,  disfigured  by  thorn- 
scratches  and  dried  blood,  ragged,  shirtless,  with 
bare  arms  sticking  through  a  sleeveless  coat ! 

Yes,  it  was  Maryon  Hammond;  he  looked  up 
at  her  as  they  carried  him  past,  and  it  was  as 
though  he  saluted  her  with  a  sword. 


164  Wild  Honey 

Ah,  God!  if  she  could  have  gone  to  him  and 
taken  his  head  to  her  breast.  But  how  could  she? 
— he  was  not  hers  but  another  woman's!  All 
she  might  do  was  rejoice  that  a  brave  man  still 
lived.  Blindly,  with  faltering  feet,  she  found 
her  way  back  to  Carr's  room  where  she  had  been 
sitting  when  the  noise  came.  She  wanted  to 
share  the  news  with  someone — someone  who  loved 
him  too.  Afterwards  they  sat  silent  in  the  twi- 
light. Carr  with  a  man's  philosophy  was  content 
now  and  could  possess  his  soul  in  patience  until 
Hammond  came  to  him.  But  Diane  knew  not 
what  power  helped  her  to  sit  there  so  still,  listening 
to  the  sounds  in  the  gaol  yard.  For  they  had  not 
discontinued  for  a  moment,  those  sounds.  Always 
men's  voices  continued  to  rise  and  fall,  shouting 
excitedly,  crying  Hammond's  name,  questioning, 
even  it  seemed  remonstrating.  There  was  much 
jingle  of  harness  too,  and  the  sound  of  horses 
being  led  out.  At  last,  a  wilder  hubbub  than 
ever,  an  uproar  of  mad  hurrahs,  cheer  upon 
cheer  ringing  on  the  evening  air,  then — the  thud 
of  horses'  hoofs  and  the  rattle  of  cart  wheels! 

Some  word  he  caught  in  all  that  wild  bedlam 
of  sound  made  Carr  spring  out  of  bed  and  tear 
down  the  passage  that  led  to  the  verandah,  with 
Diane  Heywood  running  after  him. 


Common  or  Garden  Earth        165 

"What  is  it?     What  is  it?     Where  is  he?" 
-__  After  the  first  amazed  stare  at  this  madman 
in  pyjamas  there  were  many  to  cry  him  the  news. 

"He's  gone  back  again! — What  do  you  think 
of  that?  After  doing  sixty  miles  in  his  bare 
feet! — Gone  back  to  get  de  Rivas  and  his  wife! 
Our  fellows,  twenty  of  'em  were  ready  to  go  alone — 
but  nothing  on  earth  or  off  it  could  stop  him  from 
going  too — not  the  Judge,  nor  the  Administrator, 
nor  an  Archangel  from  heaven — said  they  could 
never  find  'em  without  him — or  might  find  'em  too 
late !  His  feet  are  all  to  bits — I  tell  you,  man,  he 
hasn't  got  feet  any  more — only  some  black 
currant  jelly! — They're  so  bad  he  has  to  ride  in  a 
cart! — but  he  would  go — he  would  go.  Whether 
he'll  ever  come  back  again — with  those  feet—  —  ?" 

But  he  did  come  back.  It  took  longer  to 
bring  in  the  two  refugees  than  it  had  taken 
Maryon  Hammond  to  walk  the  distance  in  his 
bare  feet,  for  there  was  fighting  to  be  done  on  the 
return  journey;  but  Cara  de  Rivas  and  her  hus- 
band were  safe  and  sound  in  Salisbury  at  last, 
none  the  worse  for  their  three  days'  vigil. 

And  once  more  a  man  riding  on  men's  shoulders 
looked  up  at  a  girl  in  the  gaol  verandah  and 
saluted  her  with  the  blue  glance  of  his  eyes;  and 


166  Wild  Honey 

she  with  her  hand  raised  to  her  forehead  saluted 
him  in  return,  as  a  soldier  might  salute  a  con- 
queror, her  eyes  full  of  pride.  For  only  she  and 
he  knew  how  great  was  this  victory  in  which  lay 
their  defeat. 

"Do  we  think  Victory  great? 

"And  so  it  is. 

"But  now  it  seems  to  me  when  all  is  done,  that 
Defeat  is  great,  and  Death  and  Dismay  are 
great!" 

Long  before  they  came  to  fetch  her,  she  had 
heard  the  news — the  bitter,  tragic  news.  It  was 
on  all  men's  lips. 

"His  feet  are  gone.  Nothing  can  save  Marie 
Hammond's  feet — the  fleetest  feet  in  Africa!— 
gone! — done  for!  Nothing  but  amputation  can 
save  his  life — and  he  won't  have  it  done!" 

It  was  true.  He  refused  to  have  it  done.  He 
lay  and  laughed  in  the  doctors'  faces. 

"Take  my  feet  off?  Leave  me  to  spend  the 
rest  of  my  days  on  my  back — or  crawling  about 
the  earth  like  a  maimed  rat?  Oh,  no,  my  dear 
fellows! — No  job  for  you  to-day? — nothing  doing! 
All  right,  I'll  be  dead  before  morning  if  you  say 
so.  That's  not  such  bad  luck  either.  I  think 
a  good  long  rest  is  indicated  anyway.  I'd  like  a 
rest,  by  Jove!  Only  I  should  like  to  be  left  alone 


Common  or  Garden  Earth        167 

now,  if  you  don't  mind,  with  my  pal  Carr — and 
— Ah!  yes,  if  Miss  Heywood  would  stay  too — ? 
Leave  us  three  alone,  will  you,  until  the  end?" 

Diane  Heywood  never  left  Salisbury.  A  grave 
kept  her  there,  and  you  may  find  her  there  to 
this  day,  tending  the  sick  and  sad,  helping  all 
those  whose  burdens  seem  too  heavy  for  their 
shoulders. 


Watchers  by  the  Road 


169 


Watchers  by  the  Road 

HPHE  sky-line  was  scarlet  from  east  to  west, 
•*•  and  above  the  scarlet  lay  massed  bronze. 
The  rest  of  the  world  was  composed  of  tan- 
coloured  kopjes  and  rocks,  and  the  road  along 
which  the  Cape  cart  dolorously  crawled,  re- 
sembled a  river  of  dust  rising  in  mountainous 
waves  through  which  the  setting  sun  loomed  like 
a  blood-red  heart. 

It  was  the  road  from  the  Transvaal  to  Tuli, 
and  the  cart  had  been  travelling  along  it  for  hours, 
but  was  still  many  miles  from  the  wayside  hotel 
where  a  night's  rest  for  man  and  beast  was  waiting; 
and  the  offside  leader  had  gone  dead  lame,  while 
the  other  three  horses  appeared  to  have  lost  all 
enthusiasm  for  life.  On  the  crest  of  a  rise,  the 
cart  came  to  a  standstill,  and  they  stood  with 
hung  heads  and  quivering  barrels  panting  under 
their  lathered  harness.  The  driver  descended; 
a  burly  Cape  boy,  he  had  the  thick  mouth  of  a 
Hottentot  and  the  hang-dog  swagger  of  a  low- 

171 


172  Wild  Honey 

class  Boer;  but  as  far  as  horses  were  concerned 
he  was  an  angel  from  Heaven.  When  he  spoke 
to  his  beasts,  they  lifted  up  their  despairing  heads 
trembling  like  lovers  to  his  voice,  seeming  to 
stand  together  again  with  fresh  resolution  while 
he  rubbed  the  nose  of  one,  slapped  another's 
soapy  flank,  and  once  more  examined  the  leader's 
foot.  Afterwards  he  emitted  a  kind  of  resigned 
grunt  and  stood  chewing  a  bit  of  grass  he  had 
plucked  in  stooping.  The  two  men  crammed 
in  the  body  of  the  cart  with  several  dogs,  guns, 
and  a  mass  of  shooting-kit  looked  on  grimly. 
They  were  merciful  men  who  hated  to  see  a 
beast  suffer,  but  they  also  hated  the  prospect 
of  a  night  on  the  veld  without  provisions  or 
blankets.  They  were  weary  as  only  a  day's 
travelling  in  a  Cape  cart  under  the  hot  sun  can 
make  men  weary;  dead  beat,  begrimed,  and 
hungry.  Moreover  they  were  in  a  hurry  to 
reach  their  destination;  if  they  had  not  been  they 
would  have  waited  for  the  weekly  mail-coach 
instead  of  chartering  a  special  cart. 

The  significance  of  the  driver's  grunt  was  not 
lost  on  one  at  least  of  them,  a  dark  man  burnt 
almost  black,  with  hard  blue  eyes  and  a  grim  lip, 
who  looked  as  though  with  a  red  handkerchief 
on  his  head  instead  of  a  slouch  hat  he  would  have 


Watchers  by  the  Road  173 

made  a  first-class  pirate.      Never  handsome,   a 
broken  nose,  and  a  deep  scar  which  began  over 
one  unflinching  eye  and  finished  somewhere  in 
the  roots  of  his  short  thick  hair  had  not  softened 
his  appearance.     Yet  no  woman  or  dog  (the  two 
have    strangely    similar    tastes    where    men    are 
concerned)  would  have  glanced  twice  at  the  other 
man  (a  well  set  up,  good-looking  fellow  of  thirty), 
while    Dark    Garden    was    about.     The    latter, 
however,  if  he  returned  the  glances  of  women  with 
interest,  also  knew  something  of  men  and  horses, 
and  because  of  this  he  now  saw  very  well  that  the 
leader  was  done  for  and  the  driver  resigned  to  a 
night  on  the  veld.     Disentangling  himself   from 
the  shooting-kit  he  threw  himself  out  of  the  cart, 
and  the  dogs  leaped  after  him  barking  joyously. 
"This  is  a  damned  look-out,  Swartz!" 
"Yes,  Baas,"  assented  Swartz,  not  unamiably. 
"The  leader's  leg  is  gone  for  sure,  and  the  others 
are  done  up.     We  can't  make  Webb's  to-night." 
"How  far  is  it?" 
"About  thirty  miles  yet." 
Garden  looked  at  the  man  in  the  cart. 
"Feel  inclined  to  tramp  it,  Talfourd?" 
"  Oh,  Lord ! "  groaned  Talfourd.     "  Do  you?  " 
"Not   much!"    said    Garden    smiling.     "We'll 
camp.     After  all  we've  got  the  buck."     He  gave 


174  Wild  Honey 

a  glance  to  the  back  of  the  cart  where  a  beautiful 
little  riet  buck  still  warm,  but  with  the  glaze  of 
death  over  its  eyes  was  suspended.  Then  his 
keen  eye  travelled  swiftly  over  the  surrounding 
country.  The  dust  was  subsiding,  and  it  could 
be  seen  that  they  were  in  a  wild  place  of  lonely 
kopjes  and  immense  patches  of  grey-green  bush. 
Far  off,  taller,  greener  trees  growing  thick  and 
close  as  moss  outlined  the  banks  of  the  Crocodile 
River.  Across  the  midst  of  the  scene,  round 
kops  and  through  bush,  curved  and  curled  the 
dusty  white  road  that  led  to  Tuli,  and  thence 
upwards  and  onwards  through  Mashonaland  and 
Matabeleland  to  the  North. 

Swartz  had  begun  to  outspan  the  horses,  knee- 
haltering  each  so  that  they  would  not  roam  too 
far. 

"They'll  be  safer  than  they  would  have  been 
fifteen  or  twenty  years  ago,"  he  announced. 
"It  was  somewhere  about  here,  on  the  banks  of 
the  river  that  Baas  Kavanagh,  the  great  hunter, 
was  killed  by  a  lion." 

"By  George!"  said  Garden  softly  under  his 
breath,  and  his  blue  eyes  took  on  a  misty  look 
that  softened  them  curiously.  He  was  thinking 
of  Francis  Kavanagh,  the  big,  lawless,  lovable 
Irishman  who  hailed  from  his  own  part  of  Ireland 


Watchers  by  the  Road  175 

— County  Carlow,  and  had  all  the  magic  of  the 
west  in  his  voice  and  eyes.  Kavanagh  had  been 
the  hero  of  Garden's  boyhood  dreams,  the  man 
who  first  inspired  him  with  a  love  and  longing  for 
Africa.  His  thoughts  went  back  in  a  straight 
line  to  the  day  when,  as  a  college  boy,  he  had  last 
shaken  the  hand  of  the  Explorer,  famous  even  at 
thirty  for  his  travels  and  exploits.  He  had  told 
Kavanagh  of  his  intention  to  come  to  Africa  as 
soon  as  college  days  were  over,  and  the  hunter 
had  warmly  urged  him  to  come  as  soon  as  possible 
to  join  a  projected  Expedition  into  a  part  of 
Africa  that  had  not  been  penetrated.  Garden 
had  indeed  left  Ireland  within  two  years  of  that 
time,  but  by  then  Kavanagh  had  died  accident- 
ally and  mysteriously  as  men  do  die  on  the  veld, 
with  nothing  but  native  rumour  to  tell  of  the 
manner  of  his  death;  and  Garden  with  no  friend 
to  join,  and  too  poor  to  fit  out  waggons  for  the 
hunting,  adventurous  life  that  lured  him,  was 
obliged  to  make  for  the  comparatively  civilised 
places  where  money  was  to  be  made.  Destiny 
led  him  to  the  Diamond  Fields,  where,  gradually 
absorbed  by  an  unexpected  gift  in  himself  for 
finance,  and  fascinated  by  the  life  of  danger  and 
excitement,  he  had  been  caught  in  the  big  money- 
making  whirlpool,  and  had  stayed.  Then  when 


176  Wild  Honey 

the  current  set  for  the  Transvaal  where  the  Game 
was  even  keener,  and  the  life  wilder,  with  gold 
for  stakes  instead  of  diamonds,  he  had  gone  with 
it,  and  continued  to  play  the  great  Game  for  all 
he  was  worth.  But  always,  always  he  meant  to 
leave  it  some  day,  and  go  where  his  dreams  called 
him,  to  the  wild,  strange  spots  and  lonely  places 
of  Africa — sometimes  he  seemed  to  hear  them 
calling  in  the  night  with  a  voice  that  was  like  a 
woman's  voice.  But  in  the  morning  he  had  gone 
back  to  the  Game,  the  money-game,  which  is  one 
of  the  most  fascinating  in  the  world,  and  was  in 
those  early  Rand  days  full  of  "battle,  murder,  and 
sudden  death."  If  he  had  missed  hunting  lions 
he  had  closed  with  many  a  human  tiger,  as  his 
scars,  hard  eyes,  and  grim  mouth  testified.  Though 
usually  the  top  tiger,  he  had  sometimes  been 
brought  down  himself.  Twice  he  had  made  and 
lost  enormous  fortunes ;  and  now,  only  moderately 
rich,  but  on  the  eve  of  a  great  financial  coup  that 
if  properly  brought  off  would  make  him  a  million- 
aire, he  had  suddenly  thrown  down  the  Game,  and 
leaving  the  haunts  of  money  set  out  for  the  wilds. 
He  had  listened  to  the  voice  of  his  dream  at  last, 
and  more  than  ever  it  had  sounded  like  the  voice 
of  a  woman ;  only  sweeter  than  any  woman's  voice 
he  had  ever  heard.  In  haste,  yet  with  the  steady 


Watchers  by  the  Road  17? 

purpose  of  one  who  carries  out  a  long-formed  plan, 
he  had  fitted  up  his  waggons,  sent  them  on  to 
Tuli,  and  was  now  on  his  way  to  join  them  and 
three  friends  there.  His  intention  was  to  be  away 
for  a  year  and  a  half  at  least,  and  perhaps  longer. 

And  the  end  of  his  second  day's  travelling 
had  brought  him  thus  unexpectedly  to  the  place 
where  Francis  Kavanagh  had  died!  Ah,  well! 
God  rest  him  for  a  fine  Irishman,  a  lawless  lover,  a 
true  friend,  and  a  brave  man!  The  mist  cleared 
from  Garden's  eyes  and  his  usual  unfeeling,  not 
to  say  stony,  expression  returned.  He  cast  an- 
other alert  look  over  the  country,  and  instantly 
espied  at  some  distance  a  broken-down  cattle 
kraal,  and  near  by  it  the  stooping  figure  of  a 
Kaffir  gathering  mis.  In  a  straight  line  from 
there,  pitched  on  the  side  of  a  kopje,  and  by 
reason  of  its  colouring  hardly  distinguishable  from 
the  bush  about  it  was  a  grey  stone  house ;  a  light 
spot  in  front  of  it  might  have  been  the  flicker  of 
a  woman's  dress.  There  was  also  the  gleam  of  a 
fire. 

"That's  a  farm,  Swartz.  Whose  place  can  it 
be?" 

Swartz  gazed  in  the  direction  indicated,  and 
his  stolid  countenance  took  on  a  certain  degree 
of  interest. 


178  Wild  Honey 

"Ach  wot,  ja  !  That  must  be  old  Johannes  de 
Beer's,  the  transport  rider's  place,  yes!  I  heered 
he  had  come  to  live  about  here,  but  he  won't  be 
no  good  to  us,  Baas.  A  slegte  kerel !  Says  he 
hates  the  rooineks  and  would  like  to  shoot  them 
like  schelm  wherever  he  meets  them  on  the  veld." 

"  Ah !     What  part  is  he  from?  " 

"The  Transvaal,  Baas.  But  he's  different 
from  other  Boers.  He  lived  in  Delagoa  Bay 
when  he  was  a  young  kerel  and  went  a  trek  once 
on  a  Portuguese  gunboat  and  learnt  a  lot  of 
slegte  ways  from  these  dago  sailors.  I've  heard 
that  he  is  all  covered  with  red  and  blue  anchors 
and  animals  that  he  had  made  on  himself." 

"Very  interesting,"  said  Garden  dryly.  "We 
may  as  well  see  what  this  genius  can  do  for  us, 
Tal.  If  he  won't  put  us  up  for  the  night  we  may 
at  least  be  able  to  buy  some  bread  to  eat  with 
our  buck.  Come  on." 

"Gad!  I'm  glad  to  stretch  my  legs  again," 
said  Talfourd  getting  stiffly  out  of  the  cart. 
Preceded  by  the  bounding  dogs  they  made  their 
way  to  the  house.  As  they  drew  near  they  recog- 
nised the  typical  Boer  farm — a  low  sprawling 
building  with  high  stoep  and  verandah.  The 
white  thing  Garden  had  noticed  was,  as  he  had 
supposed,  the  dress  of  a  woman  sitting  on  a  wooden 


Watchers  by  the  Road  179 

bench  by  the  door.  About  thirty  yards  from 
the  house  was  a  fire  with  a  large  three-legged  pot 
over  it,  and  another  woman,  a  Kaffir  with  a 
shrewd  withered  face  squatted  beside  it  stirring 
with  a  long  metal  spoon.  A  blue  vapour  rose 
from  the  pot  and  the  scent  of  roasting  coffee  beans 
was  on  the  air.  One  lonely,  sinister-looking  tree 
grew  by  itself  to  the  left  of  the  stoep  and  a  baboon 
chained  to  it  barked  hoarsely  at  them  as  they 
approached.  The  old  Kaffir  regarded  them  with 
unfriendly  eyes,  but  the  woman  in  the  verandah 
rose  and  came  down  the  steps  and  they  saw  that 
she  was  a  young  girl,  slim  and  straight  in  a  pink 
print  dress  with  her  face  far  back  in  a  print  sun- 
bonnet.  All  that  could  be  distinguished  in  the 
failing  light  was  that  like  most  Boer  girls  she  had 
a  fine  complexion.  Garden  took  off  his  hat  and 
shook  hands  with  her  in  the  Boer  fashion,  address- 
ing her  in  good  Dutch. 

"  Dag  Jefrouw  I  Is  this  Johannes  de  Beer's 
place?" 

"Jah  Mynheer.  This  is  Greis-Kopje*  farm," 
she  answered.  Her  voice  was  surprisingly  soft 
and  melodious,  and  it  seemed  to  Garden  that  he 
had  heard  one  like  it  before. 

"Our   cart   has   broken   down,   and   we   want 

1  Grey-hill. 


i8o  Wild  Honey 

to  know  if  Mr.  de  Beer  can  put  us  up  for  the  night. 
Perhaps  we  could  speak  to  him?" 

"He  has  gone  to  Pretoria,"  said  the  girl. 
"There  is  only  Grietje,  Yacop,  and  me  here." 

"We  cannot  do  anything  for  you,"  said  the 
old  woman  who  had  approached,  and  stood  by 
with  the  spoon  in  her  hand.  "This  is  not  an 
hotel,  and  the  old  Baas  would  be  angry  if  we  took 
you  in."  She  scowled  at  them,  but  when  she 
saw  Swartz  who  had  come  up  behind  them  her 
features  slightly  relaxed,  and  she  gave  him  a  curt 
nod. 

"This  is  pretty  tough,"  said  Garden,  putting 
his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head  in  an  absent- 
minded  way  and  laughing  a  little.  "Well! 
We'd  better  go  back  to  our  buck,  I  suppose,  and 
make  a  fire  in  the  open.  We  can  get  some  sleep 
anyhow." 

But  the  girl  suddenly  began  to  speak.  Her 
speech  had  a  queer  little  twist  to  it  that  made  it 
unusual,  but  the  ugly  Dutch  fashion  of  clipping 
the  ends  of  words  betrayed  that  she  was  colonial 
and  jarred  Garden's  fine  ear. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said  excitedly,  "Grietje  is  mad. 
You  mustn't  go  away.  Of  course  we  will  do 
all  we  can  for  you.  Come  inside.  Don't  mind 
Grietje.  Would  you  like  some  coffee?" 


Watchers  by  the  Road  181 

"Wouldn't  we?"  said  Talfourd.  "And  if  we 
could  only  have  some  soap  and  water — 

Garden  said  nothing  but  stared  keenly  into  the 
girl's  "  cappie  "  trying  to  see  her  face.  She  led  the 
way  indoors  and  they  followed  her,  Talfourd 
limping  with  weariness.  But  fatigue  was  gone 
from  Garden's  face.  Something  in  the  way  the 
girl  walked  and  in  the  lines  of  the  slim  young 
figure  in  the  faded  print  dress  refreshed  him  like 
wine. 

From  the  verandah  they  entered  a  large  low 
room  remarkably  unlike  the  usual  Eat-kammer 
of  a  Boer  house.  It  is  true  there  were  guns  in  the 
corner,  karosses  on  the  furniture,  and  skins  on  the 
floor;  but  the  things  were  arranged  with  taste, 
and  there  were  flowers  about;  a  big  jar  of  wild 
jasmine  on  the  chimney-piece  with  long  fronds 
trailed  upwards  over  a  fine  pair  of  koodoo  horns 
nailed  near  the  ceiling,  and  on  the  table  a  native 
bowl  full  of  leaves  and  bright  wild  geraniums. 

"What  a  capital  room!"  said  Talfourd  full  of 
enthusiasm ;  but  Garden  always  and  ever  remained 
silent. 

"  If  you  will  sit  down  I  will  see  about  a  room  for 
you,"  said  the  girl,  in  her  soft  voice  and  bad 
accent.  They  protested  that  they  wished  to 
give  no  trouble,  but  she  opened  a  door  and  dis- 


182  Wild  Honey 

appeared,  returning  after  a  matter  of  five  minutes 
to  lead  the  way  to  a  bedroom  which  astonished 
them  even  more  than  the  Eat-kammer  had  done. 
It  contained  only  one  bed,  a  very  white  and  nice 
one,  but  there  was  a  sofa,  large  and  comfortable- 
looking,  covered  by  a  beautiful  leopard  kaross. 
Rough  dark  tables  had  white  calico  cloths  edged 
with  narrow  lace  upon  them.  A  white  wooden 
shelf  on  the  wall  held  a  few  books  and  again 
there  were  flowers  everywhere. 

"  If  you  do  not  mind  using  my  room  to  wash  and 
rest  in  until  supper  time,"  said  the  girl,  "there 
will  be  two  rooms  got  ready  for  you  by  to-night. 
Please  lie  down  and  rest  if  you  wish  to." 

She  left  them  and  they  stood  staring  at  the 
bed  with  its  white  counterpane.  It  was  so  simple 
and  dainty,  so  obviously  a  girl's  bed.  Talfourd 
threw  himself  on  the  sofa. 

"H'm!"  said  Garden.  "I  suppose  I've  got 
to  camp  on  the  floor?  It  won't  be  the  first  time 
anyway." 

In  the  meantime  he  poured  out  water  in  the 
white  enamel  bowl  and  got  rid  of  some  of  the  dust 
under  which  he  was  hidden.  Afterwards  he 
wiped  up  with  his  handkerchief  the  splashes  he 
had  made,  and  left  everything  as  dainty  as  before. 

"Be  careful  to  leave  the  wash-hand  stand  as 


Watchers  by  the  Road  183 

you  find  it  Talfourd,"  he  said,  with  something 
very  like  command  in  his  voice.  But  there  was 
no  response  from  the  weary  Talfourd  who  was 
sleeping  like  a  child.  Garden  smiled  and  looked 
about  him  for  wherewith  to  do  his  hair,  but  when 
he  saw  the  little  wooden  brush  and  white  bone  comb 
he  made  shift  to  groom  his  back  head  with  the 
flat  of  his  hand,  after  which  he  carefully  hid  the 
brush  and  comb  on  the  principle  that  what  was 
too  good  for  him  was  certainly  too  good  for  Tal- 
fourd. He  had  discarded  his  tie  in  the  heat  of 
the  day,  and  several  buttons  of  his  thin  silk  shirt 
were  undone  exposing  a  tanned,  muscular  throat; 
he  carefully  fastened  them  up,  and  though  they 
came  undone  again  a  moment  or  two  later  he 
did  not  notice  it  so  concentrated  was  he  on  his 
thoughts,  whistling  softly  under  his  breath  while 
he  moved  about  the  room.  When  he  had  quite 
finished  he  roused  Talfourd,  told  him  to  get  a 
bustle  on  him,  and  opening  the  door  went  back 
to  the  living-room. 

Candles  had  been  lighted,  and  the  table  laid 
with  a  spotless  white  cloth,  cups  and  saucers, 
tin  plates,  bone  knives  and  forks,  and  a  large 
loaf  of  the  brown  meal  bread  known  as  simmels 
broot.  A  fine  savoury  smell  of  net  buck  crisping 
and  singeing  on  red  embers  came  from  outside 


184  Wild  Honey 

where  Swartz  and  Grietje,  now  reinforced  by  the 
old  Kaffir  who  had  been  picking  up  mis,  were 
officiating  over  the  fire.  Garden  sat  down  by 
the  open  window,  and  presently  a  door  from 
another  part  of  the  house  opened  and  the  girl 
came  in,  carrying  a  pot  of  coffee.  She  had  taken 
off  her  cappie  and  by  the  flickering  candle- 
light Garden  saw  the  smoky  black  hair  growing 
above  her  brows  like  the  glossy  spread  wings  of  a 
raven;  the  bar  of  golden  freckles  that  lay  across 
her  nose;  her  silky  curved  mouth;  dewy,  mist- 
coloured  eyes  that  like  all  eyes  that  have  looked 
long  on  great  spaces  were  full  of  dreams  of  forests 
and  rivers,  and  seemed  to  reflect  the  shadows  of 
far  blue  mountains.  God  had  been  good  to  her. 
She  was  lovely  as  a  flower. 

She  sat  down  on  the  other  side  of  the  table 
and  she  and  Garden  looked  at  each  other.  The 
pupils  of  the  man's  eyes  expanded,  giving  a 
curious  intensity  to  his  glance,  and  something  in 
hers  seemed  to  leap  out  like  a  swift  radiant  spirit 
to  him  and  become  his.  She  gave  a  deep  sigh 
and  her  lids  closed,  as  though  some  living  vital 
thing  gone  out  of  her,  she  were  dead,  or  asleep. 
For  an  instant  she  stayed  so,  then  rose  quietly 
and  went  out  of  the  room.  Garden  breathing 
heavily  like  a  man  who  has  been  running,  and  with 


Watchers  by  the  Road  185 

a  rushing  sound  in  his  ears,  heard  her  speaking 
to  the  servants  at  the  fire,  and  a  moment  later 
Talfourd  came  in  with  the  bustle  he  had  been 
told  to  acquire. 

The  girl  sat  with  them  at  dinner,  serving  them 
daintily  to  the  luscious  venison,  and  cutting  big 
slices  of  the  simmels  broot  that  tasted  like  wheat 
with  the  heat  of  the  sun  still  in  it.  Later  she 
poured  them  out  cups  of  the  coffee  whose  beans 
had  so  lately  been  roasted  over  Grietje's  fire. 
She  had  little  strong  hands  burnt  a  pale  brown  by 
the  sun. 

Afterwards  the  two  men  walked  up  and  down 
smoking  in  the  moonlight  that  was  bright  as 
daylight  only  softer  and  more  tender.  It  trans- 
formed the  walls  of  the  mean  farmhouse  so  that 
they  seemed  to  be  made  of  alabaster  with  the 
shadowy  branches  of  the  lonely  tree  etched  in 
ebony  upon  them.  In  the  distance  the  broken- 
down  kraal  looked  a  gracious  ruin.  A  little  wind 
had  risen  and  drifting  wraiths  of  cloud  gave  the 
impression  that  the  moon  was  racing  across  the 
sky  with  one  lone  silver  star  following  her  death- 
lessly.  When  they  came  back  to  the  verandah 
they  found  the  girl  sitting  on  the  wooden  bench, 
and  with  her  permission  they  sat  beside  her. 

"  By  Jove !    What  a  night ! "  said  Talfourd,  and 


i86  Wild  Honey 

feeling  well  after  a  rest  and  an  excellent  meal 
began  in  a  very  fine  tenor  voice  to  sing : 

Have  you  forgotten,  love,  so  soon,  that  night,  that 

lovely  night  of  June, 
When  down  the  tide  so  idly  dreaming,  we  floated 

where  the  moon  lay  gleaming  ? 
My  heart  was  weary  and  oppressed,  by  some  sweet 

longing  unconfessed, 
When  like  an  answer  to  my  sighing,  your  hand  in 

mine  was  gently  lying. 

When  he  had  finished,  the  girl  said  in  a  low 
tremulous  voice,  "Sing  again!" 

So  he  sang  Tosti's  Adieu;  and  then  Schubert's 
Serenade.  Such  sounds,  such  words  had  perhaps 
never  before  been  heard  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
little  farmhouse.  Yet  who  can  tell!  Garden's 
Irish  imagination  evolved  the  idea  that  many 
beautiful  things  must  have  been  spoken  and 
thought  before  the  flower-like  girl  by  his  side 
had  been  born.  He  stirred  a  little  on  the  old 
bench  at  the  thought,  and  the  girl  stirred  too, 
putting  her  hand  down  beside  her  as  if  to  rise. 
Garden  did  not  see  her  movement,  but  by  some 
strange  instinct  his  hand  went  down  too  and 
found  hers  there,  and  finding  it  took  it.  She 
left  it  for  an  instant  in  his,  then  tried  to  draw  it 
away;  but  he  held  it  closely  as  he  always  held 


Watchers  by  the  Road  187 

things  he  once  took  a  grip  on,  whether  they  be- 
longed to  him  or  not,  and  she  left  it  there.  So 
they  sat  listening  hand  in  hand  while  Talfourd 
sang  his  last  song  to  them. 

I  want  no  star  in  Heaven  to  guide  me, 

I  need  no  sun,  no  moon  to  shine, 
While  I  have  you,  dear  love,  beside  me, 

While  I  know  that  you  are  mine. 
I  need  not  fear  whate'er  betide  me,  for  straight  and 

sweet  my  pathway  lies, 

I  want  no  star  in  Heaven  to  guide  me,  while  I  gaze 
in  your  dear  eyes. 

I  hear  no  birds  at  twilight  calling, 
I  catch  no  music  in  the  streams, 
While  your  golden  words  are  falling 
While  you  whisper  in  my  dreams. 
Every  sound  of  joy  enthralling,  speaks  in  your  dear 

voice  alone 

While  I  hear  your  fond  lips  calling,  while  you  speak 
to  me,  my  own. 

Again  the  girl's  strong  little  hand  fluttered  like 
a  bird  under  his,  but  he  held  it  fast.  He  liked 
things  that  tried  to  flutter  away  and  escape  from 
him. 

I  want  no  kingdom  where  thou  art,  love, 
I  want  no  throne  to  make  me  blest 

While  within  thy  tender  heart,  love, 
Thou  wilt  take  my  heart  to  rest. 


i88  Wild  Honey 

Kings  must  play  a  weary  part,  love,  thrones  must 

ring  with  wild  alarms, 
But  the  kingdom  of  my  heart,  love,  lies  within  thy 

loving  arms. 

At  last,  Talfourd  proposed  to  go  to  bed,  but 
first  he  wanted  to  know  what  the  plans  were  for 
the  morning.  Swartz  was  called  up  and  a  dis- 
cussion held.  There  were  no  horses  to  be  had 
at  the  farm,  for  it  appeared  that  old  de  Beer  had 
taken  away  the  only  two  he  possessed. 

Swartz' s  plan  was  to  take  the  best  horse  of  the 
four,  ride  on  to  Webb's  and  bring  back  a  fresh 
span  in  the  evening;  and  Garden  thought  it  a 
good  plan,  if  Miss  de  Beer  would  allow  them  to 
encroach  so  far  upon  her  hospitality. 

"We'll  earn  our  dinner,  if  there  is  any  shooting 
to  be  got  about  here,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  yes;  plenty  of  red-wing  partridge,  stem 
buck,  and  duiker. ' '  She  was  standing  opposite  him 
now,  having  escaped  in  the  general  movement. 

"Much  matatendela  also,"  volunteered  the  old 
native  man  Yacop  who  had  come  up  to  take 
part  in  the  indaba.  Garden  laughed. 

"They'll  do  for  you,  Tal;  guinea-fowl  need  a 
sprinting  athlete  after  them,  and  you  are  younger 
than  I  am."  He  looked  very  boyish  and  happy 
as  he  spoke. 


Watchers  by  the  Road  189 

"All  the  more  reason  why  I  should  go  to  bed 
at  once,"  said  Talfourd.  "Good-night,  Miss 
de  Beer,  and  many,  many  thanks  for  pouring  oil 
and  wine  upon  us  the  way  you  have  done.  You 
have  been  a  good  Samaritan  indeed!" 

"  No ;  it  was  you  who  found  me  by  the  roadside, " 
she  answered  with  a  grave  little  smile,  but  she 
looked  at  Garden  only.  He  lingered  behind  with 
her,  hoping  she  would  come  and  sit  beside  him 
again,  but  she  did  not  move  from  where  she  stood 
leaning  against  the  verandah  pole.  Swartz  and 
Yacop  had  gone  back  to  squat  by  the  fire,  and 
the  former  had  produced  the  inevitable  concertina 
that  every  Cape  boy  knows  how  to  manipulate. 
Garden  and  the  girl  stayed  listening  to  his  melan- 
choly strains,  though  it  seemed  to  the  man  that 
it  was  the  surging  of  waves  in  his  ears  that  he 
heard,  and  little  drums  in  all  his  pulses  beating 
a  call  to  arms. 

Dark  Garden  had  been  loved  many  times  and 
loved  carelessly  back,  but  never  had  he  met  the 
woman  he  wanted  to  take  and  keep  for  ever  in 
his  life.  He  had  an  idea  that  such  a  woman 
existed,  in  Ireland,  if  anywhere.  Certainly  he 
had  long  ago  decided  that  he  would  never  marry 
any  but  a  woman  from  his  own  land;  and  she 
must  be  beautiful,  accomplished,  well-bred,  and 


Wild  Honey 

virtuous  at  that.  Nothing  but  the  best  was  good 
enough  for  Dark  Garden.  But  he  was  in  no 
great  hurry  to  find  this  ideal  wife.  Life  and 
women  had  treated  him  too  well  for  him  to  be 
in  any  hurry  to  change  his  ways  and  curtail  his 
liberty.  In  the  meantime  he  had  put  away  all 
such  thoughts  for  awhile. 

The  spell  of  the  wilderness  was  on  him  and  it 
was  stronger  than  any  spell  he  had  ever  felt. 
Passing  strange  to  find  this  flower  of  a  girl  blossom- 
ing here  on  the  very  edge  of  the  wild!  and  more 
than  passing  sweet  to  linger  awhile,  sharing  the 
moonlight  night  with  her,  stirred  by  the  forbidden 
magic  of  her  girlhood.  For  girls  to  him  repre- 
sented forbidden  fruit.  Everything  else  in  the 
orchard  might  be  reached  after,  or  climbed  for, 
by  those  who  like  himself  had  the  nerve  and  taste 
for  the  pastime.  But  girls,  however  ripe  and 
inviting,  however  close  they  leaned  to  the  gather- 
ing hand,  were  not  for  this  orchard  thief.  It  was 
the  one  clause  in  his  code  concerning  women 
which  he  had  never  broken.  True  he  had  not 
been  greatly  tempted,  for  girls  had  never  held 
any  extraordinary  allure  for  him.  The  more 
astonishing  then  to  find  himself  so  troubled  by 
the  sight  and  sound  of  this  one.  When  he 
thought  of  that  something  which  had  come  wing- 


Watchers  by  the  Road  191 

ing  its  way  from  her  eyes  to  his,  and  of  how  her 
hand  had  fluttered  under  his  and  then  lain  still, 
content,  the  blood  tingled  through  his  veins;  he 
was  glad  to  be  alive. 

A  longing  to  hear  the  voice  which  charmed  him 
in  spite  of  the  jarring  Dutch  accent  made  him 
break  the  spell  of  silence  that  had  fallen  on  them. 

"I  do  not  even  know  your  name,"  he  said  in 
the  gentle  way  he  had  with  women. 

"Frances,"  she  answered  as  gently.  "Frances 
deBeer." 

"But  you  are  not  Dutch?"  he  said,  though  it 
mattered  little  to  him  if  she  declared  herself 
Siamese  or  a  native  of  Timbuctoo.  The  im- 
portant thing  was  that  she  was  she,  a  beautiful, 
alluring,  and  forbidden  thing. 

"No;  my  mother  was  an  Englishwoman  who 
married  a  Boer.  I  am  the  love  child  of  an 
Irishman." 

A  wave  of  astonishment  mingled  with  pity 
surged  through  him  at  her  strange  words,  and  all 
the  tragedy  they  implied  both  for  her  and  the 
mother  who  had  borne  her  in  suffering  and  sorrow. 

And  now  he  knew  why  this  girl's  eyes  were  deep 
and  full  of  dreams,  why  her  hair  framed  her  face 
like  the  spread  wings  of  a  raven,  why  her  mouth 
was  curved  to  the  shape  of  a  kiss  incarnate. 


192  Wild  Honey 

She  was  the  child  of  two  eternal  things:  Love 
and  Sorrow. 

He  sat  very  still  thinking.  The  pity  of  it  all 
took  hold  of  his  heart  and  an  impulsive  longing 
rose  in  him  to  do  something  to  set  things  aright 
as  they  should  be,  for  this  beautiful  child.  Yet 
the  sins  of  the  fathers!  Who  can  pay  for  them 
but  the  flesh  and  blood  of  those  who  made  the 
debt?  Who  can  set  aright  what  has  been  wrong 
from  the  first?  What  place  in  the  world  was  there 
for  this  love  flower  of  the  desert? 

Supposing  he,  Wilberforce  St.  John  Garden  were 
to  marry  her !  The  tingle  came  into  his  veins  again 
at  the  thought,  and  a  song  sang  in  his  blood.  But 
his  brain  knew  that  it  was  a  fool's  idea.  What 
place  in  his  life  for  the  simple  untaught  child? 

It  never  occurred  to  him  to  doubt  whether 
she  would  marry  him.  He  was  too  trained  a 
student  in  the  school  of  women's  looks  not  to 
know  what  gift  she  had  given  him  with  her  eyes 
whether  consciously  or  unconsciously,  at  their 
first  encounter.  And  every  instinct  urged  him 
to  lay  hot  impulsive  hands  on  it,  to  take  and  keep 
it,  as  he  had  taken  and  kept  her  hand.  But  his 
brain  remained  cool  and  clear.  He  had  his  code 
to  keep.  The  girl  was  impossible  to  marry.  That 
fact  put  her  out  of  his  reach  definitely. 


Watchers  by  the  Road  193 

He  sighed  deeply.  He  did  not  know  that  he 
sighed,  but  the  girl  heard  him.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  he  had  come  a  long  way,  and  passed  through 
some  extraordinarily  poignant  ordeal.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact  it  was  only  a  minute  or  two  since 
she  had  last  spoken  that  the  girl  spoke  again, 
continuing  her  narrative. 

"My  mother  lived  in  this  house  with  her  Boer 
husband  who  was  very  cruel  to  her.  The  only 
pleasure  she  had  was  to  sit  here  sometimes  and 
watch  the  road.  One  day  when  her  husband 
was  away  in  the  Transvaal  an  Irishman  came 
along  the  road.  He  was  a  hunter  and  an  adven- 
turer, and  my  mother  said  there  was  a  magic 
in  him  that  no  woman  could  resist — unless  she 
were  of  his  own  country;  for  all  others  he  was  one 
of  those  who  must  be  followed  when  they  call,  and 
I  think  he  must  have  been,  for  one  so  sweet  and 
good  as  my  mother  to  have  forgotten  all  for  him. 
He  took  her  away  to  his  waggons,  and  they  were 
going  away  together  to  the  Interior  but  a  lion 
killed  him  over  there  by  the  river." 

"What  was  his  name?"  asked  Garden,  though 
he  already  knew.  He  knew  now  whose  musical 
voice  had  echoed  up  old  memories  when  first  he 
heard  her  speak. 

"Francis    Kavanagh.     My    mother    told    me 


194  Wild  Honey 

when  she  was  dying,  but  no  one  else  has  ever 
known,  except  Grietje — and  now  you." 

"Why  do  you  tell  me?"  he  asked,  though  he 
knew  the  answer  to  that  too.  Perhaps  she  did 
not  hear,  for  she  gave  no  response,  only  made  a 
little  foot-note  to  her  tragic  tale. 

"She  made  me  swear  a  solemn  promise,  by  her 
sin  and  his."  A  moment  later  she  added: 

"But  I  can  never  help  being  glad  that  I  am  not 
the  child  of  a  Boer." 

"Yet  you  have  stayed  on?  You  still  live  with 
the  Boer  who  was  so  cruel  to  your  mother?" 
Somehow  it  was  difficult  to  reconcile  this  strange 
fact  with  her,  but  doubtless  she  could  explain. 
She  could. 

"I  do  not.  He  is  long  ago  dead.  I  live  here 
with  Johannes  de  Beer  my  husband." 

It  seemed  to  Garden  that  the  night  changed  and 
turned  cold.  The  stars  looked  faint  and  dim,  and 
the  moonlight  that  had  been  so  beautiful  erstwhile 
grew  a  strange  dull  grey,  the  colour  of  death. 

He  too  felt  cold,  and  old.  All  the  fatigue  of 
the  day  descended  upon  him  in  a  heavy  cloud, 
and  he  suddenly  had  a  great  longing  for  sleep  and 
forgetfulness. 

"Ah,  yes — your  husband,"  he  said  in  a  vague 
way,  like  a  man  whose  thoughts  are  elsewhere. 


Watchers  by  the  Road  195 

"He  used  to  pass  this  way  often  with  his 
waggons,  and  my  mother  thought  he  would  make 
me  a  good  husband.  When  she  was  dying  and 
I  had  no  one  in  the  world  he  promised  her  to 
marry  me  and  take  care  of  me.  I  try  to  mind 
him  well,  and  he  is  not  unkind." 

Later  she  said : 

"He  bought  this  farm  and  came  to  live  here 
because  it  has  always  been  my  home — and  I  like 
to  watch  the  road." 

He  did  not  ask  her  why.  The  boys  by  the  fire 
got  up  and  shuffled  away  to  their  blankets.  The 
old  woman  was  long  since  gone.  These  two  were 
left  alone  in  the  silence  and  the  moonlight. 

"Did  you  think  that  someone  for  you  would 
come  along  the  road  some  day?"  he  asked  at  last, 
coming  very  near  her  and  looking  at  her  mouth. 
After  a  moment  she  answered  with  a  little  sobbing 
sigh  in  her  throat: 

"But  I  must  always  remember  the  promise  I 
made  to  my  mother." 

He  came  close  to  her  and  gripped  her  hands; 
his  eyes  full  of  hunger,  and  longing,  and  caresses 
searched  hers;  his  lips  were  almost  on  her  lips. 

"  What  was  the  promise  ?" 

A  wave  of  colour  passed  over  her  face  and  her 
eyes  darkened  with  tears. 


196  Wild  Honey 

"I  think  you  know,"  she  cried  miserably. 

"You  must  break  it,"  he  said  firmly.  "You 
are  mine — you  must  come  with  me." 

"No,"  she  said  crying,  "I  cannot." 

Her  face  bright  and  pale  in  the  white  light  was 
like  the  face  of  a  brave  boy  looking  on  death. 
The  heat  and  madness  went  out  of  Garden.  He 
took  her  hand  very  gently  and  kissed  it,  then  he 
walked  away  into  the  night. 

But  out  on  the  hot  scented  veld  he  thought 
of  the  gifts  in  her  eyes  and  madness  came  upon 
him  again.  A  promise!  Can  the  dead  bind  the 
living  with  promises?  Can  a  sinner  make  a 
saint  out  of  her  child  by  laying  an  injunction  on 
her  young  soul!  He  laughed  loud  and  bitterly 
in  the  night,  and  the  birds  stirred  in  the  trees 
at  so  strange  a  sound.  A  "bush  baby"  curled 
in  some  distant  clump  of  mimosa  began  to  wail, 
and  the  dog  that  had  followed  his  master  from 
the  farm  whined  uneasily.  He  had  walked  far 
and  long.  The  swift  rush  of  the  river  was  close 
at  hand,  and  the  whereabouts  of  the  farm  could 
only  be  guessed  by  one  little  faint  yellow  light 
that  streaked  across  the  distance.  Someone  was 
keeping  vigil. 

Somewhere  near  this  spot  Kavanagh  had  met 


Watchers  by  the  Road  197 

the  end  so  fitting  to  his  wild  adventurous  life. 
Who  lives  by  the  sword  shall  die  by  the  sword ! 
The  lawless  had  fallen  victim  to  the  lawless !  But 
he  had  found  his  own  before  the  end  came,  was 
Garden's  thought. 

What  did  Death  matter  when  one  had  drunk 
to  the  dregs  the  cup  Life  holds  to  the  lips  of 
lovers?  A  good  enough  way  to  die  too,  by  God! 
A  short  sharp  struggle  with  the  odds  against  him — 
then,  very  swiftly,  the  end! 

Married  to  a  Boer  I  Those  dewy  dreaming  eyes 
that  were  of  his  land — that  black  hair  that  winged 
above  her  forehead  like  the  wings  of  a  raven — 
that  ardent  spirit  that  had  leaped  from  her  eyes 
to  his — married  to  a  Boer!  And  he,  Wilberforce 
Garden,  who  had  always  taken  what  he  wanted 
from  life,  wrenched  it  from  men's  hands  and 
women's  lips,  he  must  be  denied  and  go  empty 
away! 

He  forgot  now  that  when  he  thought  her  free 
he  had  successfully  resisted  the  idea  of  marrying 
her  as  a  solution  to  the  problem,  and  forgot  too 
that  her  accent  jarred  on  him.  Remembered 
only  the  gifts  her  eyes  had  for  him — and  thought 
that  with  her,  out  under  the  stars  he  could  forget 
the  world  into  which  she  would  not  fit.  And  it 
was  no  good.  She  was  married  to  a  Boer ! 


198  Wild  Honey 

Raging  he  bit  on  the  empty  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
and  blood  came  into  his  eyes  so  that  he  could  no 
longer  see  clearly,  but  went  stumbling  on  his  way, 
raging,  cursing.  He  would  have  liked  to  have 
that  Boer  who  was  "not  unkind"  to  her  under 
his  hands  out  there  in  the  veld.  He  flung  himself 
like  a  boy  face  down  on  the  earth.  After  a  little 
while,  lying  there,  a  quietness  fell  upon  him. 
The  cool  brain  that  had  out-finessed  many  an- 
other cool  brain  woke  up  and  began  to  consider 
the  situation  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  man  who 
does  not  mean  to  lose,  whatever  the  game  may  be. 
He  lay  so  still  that  his  dog  who  sat  uneasily  by 
him  thought  he  must  be  asleep  and  from  time  to 
time  gently  licked  his  ear.  But  Dark  Garden 
was  not  asleep.  He  was  fighting  a  battle  with  his 
better  self;  with  such  rags  and  remnants  of  a 
conscience  as  survived  in  him ;  with  a  last  unbroken 
moral  code.  At  last  he  got  up  and  retraced  his 
steps  quietly  and  firmly  like  a  man  with  a  pur- 
pose. His  eyes  had  grown  a  little  harder.  The 
battle  was  lost. 

Dawn  was  not  more  than  an  hour  or  two  off 
when  he  returned  to  the  farm.  The  stars  were 
darkening,  and  the  indescribable  freshness  of 
morning  could  be  felt  in  the  air.  Shadows  under 
tree  and  bush  were  stirring  as  if  for  flight.  A 


Watchers  by  the  Road  199 

wedge-shaped  flock  of  wild  duck  passed,  honking 
mournfully,  towards  the  east. 

The  light  in  the  farmhouse  had  gone  out;  but 
as  he  came  quietly  to  the  stoep  he  heard  from 
a  window  that  stood  ajar  a  sound  as  of  a  woman 
softly  and  brokenly  weeping.  A  little  while  he 
stood  there,  listening,  then  gently  he  pushed  the 
window  further  open  and  stepped  into  the  room. 
The  soft  and  broken  weeping  ceased. 

They  stayed  three  days  and  nights  at  Grey- 
Kopje  farm.  Talfourd  and  Garden  went  out 
shooting  daily,  returning  at  meal  times,  laden  with 
small  game  to  restock  the  larder.  Always  after 
dinner  the  three  sat  on  the  stoep  as  on  the  first 
night,  and  Talfourd  sang  while  the  other  two 
listened.  Swartz  had  brought  back  fresh  horses 
on  the  evening  of  the  first  day,  but  Garden  found 
fault  with  them  and  made  him  return  for  others. 
On  the  second  day,  a  native  carrier  sent  out  with 
instructions  to  search  the  road  for  Garden  brought 
a  letter  from  the  men  waiting  in  Tuli  who  wanted 
to  know  what  delayed  him  and  why  he  did  not 
materialise?  Talfourd  wanted  to  know  too,  but 
knew  better  than  to  ask.  Garden  was  a  man 
who  took  badly  to  any  kind  of  ill-timed  inquiry. 

On  the  fourth  morning,  Swartz  had  not  returned, 


200  Wild  Honey 

but  Talfourd  with  the  clear  eye  of  a  man  who 
has  accomplished  nine  hours  of  sound  sleep  with 
nothing  on  his  conscience,  glanced  out  of  the 
window  and  noted  Garden  picking  out  of  the  cart 
things  he  would  not  be  likely  to  need  before  reach- 
ing Tuli.  "Hurray!  we're  going  to  make  a  move 
at  last!"  he  said  to  himself,  and  made  haste  to 
perform  his  toilette. 

At  the  breakfast  table,  it  struck  him  that  Garden 
looked  older  than  a  man  of  thirty-four  ought  to 
look,  however  swift  has  been  the  pace.  How- 
ever, he  kept  his  observations  to  himself.  It 
transpired  that  Garden's  plan  was  that  he  and 
Talfourd  should  start  for  Webb's  immediately 
after  breakfast,  leaving  the  cart  to  be  brought 
on  later  by  Swartz  when  he  turned  up  with 
horses. 

"If  we  don't  meet  him  we  can  send  on  someone 
else  for  it." 

"How  are  we  going  to  get  there?"  said  Talfourd 
looking  up  in  surprise. 

"I  suppose  we  can  foot  thirty  miles  without 
endangering  our  lives?"  answered  Garden  with 
something  so  very  like  a  sneer  and  so  very  unlike 
his  usual  impassive  serenity  that  Talfourd  was 
even  more  surprised. 

"Oh,  all  right,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  said  pleas- 


Watchers  by  the  Road  201 

antly.     "It's    your    picnic.     I    only    wanted    to 
know." 

Mrs.  de  Beer  sat  listening  without  comment, 
but  she  grew  very  pale.  Afterwards  Talfourd 
went  out  to  get  the  guns  ready,  and  Garden  re- 
mained sitting  at  the  table. 

"You  are  going?"  she  said  looking  away  from 
him  with  eyes  that  were  no  longer  dewy  but  dry 
and  brilliant  like  the  sky  above  the  Karoo  in  days 
of  drought. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  in  a  business-like  voice. 
"I  must  go."  He  got  up  and  looked  out  of  the 
window  for  a  moment,  then  walked  back  to  the 
table. 

"My  friends  are  waiting  for  me  at  Tuli." 

"Yes,  "she  said. 

"I  cannot  break  faith  with  them." 

"No."  Her  mouth  was  twisted  like  the  mouth 
of  a  tortured  child,  but  her  eyes  remained  bright 
and  dry. 

Garden's  faithless  heart  smote  him. 

"For  God's  sake,  Frances—  he  muttered, 
taking  her  hands.  "I  will  stay  if  you  wish  it" — 
But  his  heart  was  already  away  with  his  friends 
and  the  waiting  miles  beyond.  She  read  the 
truth  in  his  eyes.  No  word  now  of  her  coming 
with  him !  Only  of  his  staying — if  she  wished  it ! 


202  Wild  Honey 

She  looked  into  his  eyes  a  long  aching  moment, 
then  turned  away  with  one  word : 

"Good-bye." 

A  few  hours  later  all  was  as  it  had  been  at  the 
Grey  farm.  Even  the  cart  was  gone,  for  Swartz 
had  brought  four  sturdy  mules  and  driven  it 
away.  Under  the  lone  tree  Xsosa,  the  baboon,  sat 
silent,  watching  the  kopjes  with  fierce  wistful  eyes. 
Silence  everywhere,  except  in  one  room  of  the 
house  whence  came  the  sound  as  of  a  woman 
softly  and  brokenly  weeping. 

Once  some  Kaffir  words  spoken  savagely  yet 
with  a  kind  of  crooning  tenderness  came  through 
an  open  window. 

"See  you  now  what  you  have  got  from  watch- 
ing the  road! — a  knife  in  your  heart.  Did  not 
old  Grietje  warn  you?  Hush  arme  kindje — weep 
not." 

But  the  soft  and  broken  weeping  went  on. 

Across  the  arid  flats  of  Bechuanaland  went 
Garden  with  company  picked  for  its  excellence 
in  fair  weather  or  foul;  but  sometimes  on  the 
fairest,  fullest  day  a  pang  of  loneliness  would 
shoot  through  him,  darkening  his  mental  horizon 
and  isolating  him  from  his  fellows.  The  Forest 
of  Somabula  gave  splendid  sport,  but  in  its  deep 


Watchers  by  the  Road          203 

silences  he  sometimes  thought  he  could  hear  the 
sound  of  a  woman  weeping.  And  all  the  water 
sweeping  down  the  violet  black  precipices  of 
Victoria  Falls  and  twirling  lazily  in  the  subtle 
olive  green  pool  below  could  not  wash  out  the 
remembrance  of  a  mouth  that  was  twisted  like 
the  mouth  of  a  little  tortured  child.  But  his 
conscience  had  great  sleeping  qualities.  Also, 
he  had  not  been  using  his  will  for  ten  years  to 
fight  and  "down"  other  men  without  strengthen- 
ing its  sinews  for  his  own  service.  He  willed  not 
to  remember  certain  things,  therefore  in  time  will 
knocked  memory  out,  or  at  least  put  it  into 
Chancery  where  it  could  no  longer  hurt  him  until 
he  released  it,  or  it  proved  strong  enough  to 
release  itself. 

After  that  the  trip  was  as  complete  a  success 
for  him,  as  it  had  been  from  the  beginning  to  the 
others. 

Everything  favoured  them.  Sport  was  extra- 
ordinarily good,  boys  reliable,  mules  and  oxen 
in  fine  condition,  weather  unfailingly  serene. 
The  objective  point  of  the  trip  was  Lake  Rudolph 
in  British  East  Africa,  via  British  Central  and 
German  territory.  The  route  had  been  picked 
and  pored  over  long  before  the  start  and  nothing 
intervened  to  spoil  the  original  plans.  With  an 


204  Wild  Honey 

almost  uncanny  smoothness  the  days  unclosed, 
rolled  themselves  out,  and  closed  again,  full  to  the 
brim  with  event  and  adventure,  leaving  no  spare 
moment  in  which  to  remember  the  life  left  hundreds 
of  miles  behind;  thereafter  swiftly  transforming 
themselves  into  weeks  and  months,  until  more 
than  half  the  year  was  done. 

Then  one  lovely  moonlight  night  on  the  shore 
of  Lake  Bangwelo  memory  without  comprehensible 
rhyme  or  reason  came  out  of  Chancery  and  stayed 
with  Garden.  And  thereafter  it  came  regularly. 
Will  had  no  power  over  it  any  longer.  Like  a 
little  spectral  child  that  was  afraid  to  be  out 
alone  it  came  oftenest  when  the  moon  was  sinking 
and  the  dawn  only  an  hour  or  two  off.  Nearly 
always  its  lips  were  twisted  with  pain,  and  on 
dark  nights  he  could  hear  it  softly  weeping.  But 
there  were  nights  when  it  was  not  a  sad  ghost 
and  these  were  hardest  to  bear.  Sometimes  it 
threw  a  soft  warm  arm  round  his  throat  and  woke 
him  very  tenderly  because  the  dawn  was  near  and 
he  must  go.  At  other  times  it  would  leave  a 
kiss  fresh  as  a  flower  across  his  lips  and  he  would 
fling  out  his  arms  and  wake  with  a  curse  to  find 
them  empty.  But  always  in  some  wise  or  an- 
other the  little  ghost  kept  vigil  with  him. 

Then  slowly,  little  by  little,  he  began  to  hate 


Watchers  by  the  Road  205 

things,  and  things  repaid  him  as  they  always  do, 
by  going  wrong.  Boys  began  to  run  away  when 
they  were  most  needed,  donkeys  took  to  dying 
(the  ox-waggons  had  long  been  left  behind), 
carriers  got  fever  and  died,  and  those  engaged  in 
their  place  ofttimes  scooted  leaving  packs  by  the 
wayside.  Big  game,  after  long  tracking,  escaped 
though  wounded,  in  the  end.  One  of  the  other  fel- 
lows went  down  with  malaria  and  passed  out.  The 
rest  of  them  grew  morose  and  sick  of  the  whole 
business.  Some  of  them  began  to  talk  of  the 
affairs  that  awaited  their  attention  down  country. 
But  Garden  meant  to  bring  back  a  white  rhino 
from  the  shores  of  the  Rudolph  and  he  said  so, 
though  God  knew  that  he  too  was  sick  of  the  busi- 
ness. Not  a  night  now  that  he  did  not  lie  down 
with  maledictions  in  his  heart ;  not  a  morning  when 
he  rose  to  a  world  glittering  with  frost  crystals 
that  looked  as  though  they  had  been  shaken  from 
some  giant  Christmas  card  (everywhere  except 
on  the  dark  spots  where  sleepers  had  lain)  but 
his  first  thought  was  to  curse  the  day  he  was  born 
and  jibe  at  every  good  thing  life  had  bestowed  on 
him. 

The  year  was  two  months  short  of  completion 
when  the  other  men  began  to  drop  off.  Le 
Breton  and  Senier  took  a  dozen  boys  and  walked 


206  Wild  Honey 

for  Mozambique.  Vincent  was  dead.  Talfourd, 
the  last  to  go,  joined  at  Tabora  another  man  who 
was  making  his  way  to  Daar-es-Saalem.  Garden 
was  left  alone  with  his  determination  to  finish 
at  Lake  Rudolph  or  die  in  the  attempt.  The 
determination  was  undermined  at  nights  by  a 
spectre  which  whispered  him  alluring  invitations 
to  embark  at  Mombassa  for  the  Cape  and  thence 
from  Petersburg  to  take  the  Tuli  road.  But  by 
day  he  was  far  from  the  intention  of  doing  any- 
thing of  the  kind,  though  after  being  away  nearly 
a  year  and  a  half  he  had  very  good  reasons 
for  hastening  his  return.  Occasional  batches  of 
letters  that  reached  him  at  prearranged  posts 
notified  an  urgency  for  his  presence  on  the  Rand, 
but  it  had  grown  to  be  a  matter  almost  of  defiance 
now  that  he  should  make  Rudolph,  though  who 
or  what  it  was  he  defied  he  omitted  to  specify, 
even  to  himself. 

And  he  did  make  Rudolph  though  it  took  him 
three  months  to  do  it  and  another  three  months 
to  get  back.  When  he  arrived  at  Mombassa 
with  his  white  rhino  trophies,  he  was  looking  a 
good  deal  the  worse  for  wear,  and  it  may  be  com- 
puted that  his  system  contained  more  than  one 
man's  fair  share  of  malarial  and  tropical  try- 
panosomes.  But  he  was  once  more  immune  to 


Watchers  by  the  Road  207 

spectral  memories  at  least  and  so  far  master  of  his 
destiny  as  to  be  able  with  a  firm  mind  to  arrange 
his  affairs  down  south  by  letter  and  cable  and 
take  ship  for  Europe  instead  of  the  Cape.  Via 
the  East  Coast  he  reached  Egypt  and  made  a 
month's  stay;  then  to  Marseilles  and  several 
months  loitering  on  the  Mediterranean  shores. 
But  his  objective  point  now  was  Ireland  and  by 
land  and  water  he  came  at  last  to  that  fair,  green 
land.  For  one  of  the  conclusions  he  had  arrived 
at  during  the  lonely  later  months  of  his  expedition 
was  that  man  was  not  meant  to  live  alone  and  that 
the  hour  had  struck  for  him  to  find  the  beautiful, 
accomplished,  and  well-born  girl  who  doubtless 
awaited  him  somewhere  in  his  own  country.  Ire- 
land indeed  is  the  home  of  many  such,  and  in  and 
out  of  Dublin  during  a  specially  gay  dancing  and 
hunting  season  he  found  no  scarcity  of  the  usual 
supply.  But  none  were  for  him.  Always,  even 
in  the  most  charming,  something  lacked,  some 
little,  vital,  essential  thing — he  knew  not  what, 
and  did  not  wish  to  analyse,  and  never  stayed  to 
find  out.  Once  or  twice,  when  he  lingered  in 
curiosity,  the  keys  of  his  castle  were  almost  out  of 
his  hands,  for  the  dark  face  of  Dark  Garden  had 
not  lost  its  lure  for  women,  and  many  a  beautiful 
eye  grew  brighter  for  his  coming  and  more  than 


208  Wild  Honey 

one  society  beauty  made  up  her  mind  that  it 
would  be  "rather  good  fun"  to  go  to  South  Africa 
as  this  adventurer's  bride.  But  Garden  escaped 
always,  and  with  a  sense  of  breathlessness  and 
relief  that  was  extraordinary  considering  the 
nature  of  his  quest. 

Then  one  bleak  morning  in  late  autumn  the 
nostalgia  of  Africa  took  him  by  the  heart  and 
before  that  day  was  out  he  was  shaking  the  dust 
of  Ireland  from  his  feet  with  his  face  set  for 
Southampton  where  the  Union-Castle  liners  turn 
their  noses  towards  the  Southern  Cross. 

One  of  the  first  faces  to  greet  him  at  the  Cape 
Town  Docks  was  Talfourd's.  Garden  fell  upon 
him  as  upon  a  long-lost  brother.  It  seemed  to 
him  there  was  no  other  man  in  the  world  he  would 
so  gladly  have  met.  He  was  conscious  that  Tal 
and  he  shared  an  experience  that  was  secret  to 
the  rest  of  his  friends.  Wherefore  he  could  not 
disguise  his  pleasure  at  the  encounter.  Tal  was 
hooked  in  to  come  and  lunch  at  the  City  Club, 
and  later  to  dine  at  the  Mount  Nelson.  For  the 
moment  there  was  no  one  like  Tal.  The  latter 
indeed  found  himself  somewhat  intrigued  by  this 
unwonted  demonstrativeness.  Garden  seemed  to 
him  to  be  queerly  changed  since  first  they  had  met 
some  five  or  six  years  past.  When  after  dinner 


Watchers  by  the  Road          209 

that  night,  out  among  the  trim  walks  and  aromatic 
bushes  of  the  garden,  they  fell  into  reminiscences 
he  voiced  something  of  his  thought.  He  was  an 
introspective  fellow  with  a  good  deal  of  sentiment 
in  his  composition,  and  the  wine  and  cigars  had 
been  excellent. 

"You  were  always  a  hard  nut  to  crack,  Garden, 
but  the  gayest  chap  on  earth,  and  even  the  fellows 
you  knocked  out  liked  you  for  it  afterwards.  But 
Africa  changed  you  as  it  changes  us  all.  You  went 
queer  on  that  trek  of  ours  up  north  and  I  never 
could  make  it  out.  I've  thought  a  lot  about  it 
and,  do  you  know,  I  always  dated  the  change  in 
you  back  to  that  little  farm  we  put  up  at  on  the 
road  to  Tuli — Greis-Kopje — remember  the  place?" 

Garden  gloomed  at  him.  Did  he  remember  it? 
By  God! 

"Strange,"  continued  Talfourd,  "I  ran  into 
our  old  driver  Swartz  at  Pretoria  the  other  day. 
He  has  got  regular  work  on  the  Zeederburg  Coach 
Line,  and  is  up  and  down  the  Tuli  Road.  He 
told  me  a  queer  thing  about  Greis-Kopje.  It 
appears  that  old  de  Beer,  the  fellow  who  owned 
the  place,  disappeared  about  a  year  ago  and 
has  never  been  seen  since.  He  was  the  husband 
of  that  pretty  girl  we  thought  was  his  daughter 
at  first.  You  remember?" 


210  Wild  Honey 

Garden  was  busy  lighting  another  cigar,  his 
face  mask-like  except  for  the  eyes  which  burnt 
like  points  of  blue  fire. 

"The  supposition  is  that  either  he  was  drowned 
crossing  the  Crocodile  River  or  else  a  stray  lion 
got  him." 

"AndMrs.de  Beer?" 

"  Still  lives  on  there  with  old  Grietje  and  Yacop." 

"Let's  go  in,"  said  Garden  abruptly.  "I  have 
to  be  up  at  daybreak  and  get  through  a  lot  of 
business.  I  leave  by  the  mail  at  eleven." 

"What  a  fellow  you  are!  Where  for?  Jo- 
hannesburg?" 

"Yes."  And  from  thence  to  the  Tuli  Road, 
fast  as  hoof  and  wheel  could  carry  him.  Now  he 
knew  what  ailed  him,  and  would  shout  it  from  the 
mountain-tops  but  that  it  was  too  sweet  and  dear 
a  secret  to  be  shared  with  all  the  world — yet. 
Now  he  knew  what  anodyne  to  seek  for  healing 
of  his  raging  wound,  what  drink  for  solace  of  his 
burning  torment.  By  the  broad,  dusty  road  to 
Tuli  ran  a  stream  of  clear,  cold  water  and  his 
parched  soul  was  sick  to  drink  from  it.  Memory 
suddenly  sculptured  in  his  brain  a  face  that  all 
Ireland  had  not  been  able  to  duplicate.  Yet  all 
Ireland  lay  in  the  dewy,  passionate  eyes  of  Frances 
de  Beer,  and  for  him  all  home,  all  peace,  all  future. 


Watchers  by  the  Road          211 

Now,  at  last,  he  acknowledged  what  he  had  always 
known,  and  gave  himself  up  to  the  thought  of 
what  he  had  denied  so  long:  she  who  had  given 
all  asked  nothing,  and  let  him  go  without  a  re- 
proach. He  knew  now  that  he  had  been  a  knave 
and  a  fool  and  that  for  the  last  two  and  a  half 
years  he  had  been  paying  with  torment  of  body 
and  soul  for  it.  And  still  was  paying.  When  he 
remembered  her  and  all  she  had  been  to  him — 
his  loneliness  was  a  still  small  torment  that  pierced 
and  tortured  him  like  a  dart  in  his  vitals. 

Throughout  that  night  he  paced  his  room,  or 
stood  at  his  open  window,  staring  out  at  the 
silvered  slopes  of  Table  Mountain  but  getting  no 
peace  of  her  stern  eternal  loveliness.  Pacing, 
and  staring,  in  the  small  hours,  he  went  over 
every  detail  of  that  brief  sweet-madness  on  the 
Tuli  Road,  remembering  her  face,  her  voice,  her 
eyes,  and  the  soul  of  her  that  had  leaped  from 
them  to  him.  And,  as  always,  the  thing  that 
stirred  him  most  was  the  memory  of  her  flutter- 
ing hand  under  his  that  first  night  when  they  sat 
on  the  stoep  listening  to  Talfourd's  singing.  He 
remembered  how  a  mist  had  come  over  his  eyes 
at  the  feel  of  it;  his  heart  had  seemed  to  turn  over 
in  his  breast;  it  was  as  though  he  had  trapped 
something  he  had  lain  in  wait  for  all  his  life ;  all  the 


212  Wild  Honey 

tyranny  and  tenderness  of  his  nature  had  been 
roused  in  that  moment,  with  something  of  a  boy's 
elation  when  he  has  caught  with  his  own  hands 
some  beautiful  wild  thing  that  he  has  watched 
for  long. 

It  all  came  back,  like  a  dream  of  delirium,  only 
more  vividly.  He  re-lived  the  moment  when  a 
passing  chivalrous  impulse  had  bade  him  kiss  her 
hands  and  leave  her,  and  that  dark  hour  on  the 
veld  when  he  had  fought  a  battle  with  his  baser 
self  and  lost.  Then  that  other  mad  hour  of 
stolen  sweetness,  when  he  had  groped  for  her  in 
the  luminous  darkness  of  her  room  and  found  first 
the  little,  pale,  strong  hands  that  smelled  like 
apple  blossom — then  her  lips!  He  recalled  her 
tears  and  little  broken  cries,  and  how  his  lips  had 
crushed  them  down  and  kissed  them  away !  How 
all  too  soon  the  dawn  had  come!  And  with  this 
memory  came  pain  and  shame.  Bitter  shame 
that  he  had  so  debased  her  whom  he  loved.  She 
who  had  only  wished  to  do  right,  but  found  her 
heart  and  his  will  too  strong  for  her.  Love 
anointed  his  cynical  eyes  at  last  and  he  saw  and 
understood  the  hearts  of  women  as  he  had  never 
done  before,  and  knew  at  last  how  unworthy  were 
most  men,  and  he  with  them,  of  the  sacrifices 
women  make  on  the  altar  of  love.  Hot,  un- 


Watchers  by  the  Road  213 

accustomed  moisture  that  seemed  to  be  dragged 
torturingly  from  the  very  depths  of  his  being 
seared  his  eyes.  He  flung  himself  on  his  bed, 
ashamed  at  first  of  his  tears,  then  of  his  acts,  and, 
at  last,  ashamed  of  his  life. 

"God  forgive  me!"  he  thought.  "It  shall 
never  happen  again." 

But  God's  forgiveness  was  taken  for  granted 
and  he  thought  less  about  that  than  of  the 
sweetness  the  future  promised. 

It  was  not  many  nights  before  his  feet  were  set 
upon  the  long  white  dusty  road  that  wound  by 
kop  and  kloof  and  vlei  to  the  haven  of  his  heart's 
desire.  He  had  given  orders  for  everything  he 
possessed  on  the  Rand  to  be  sold,  and  did  not 
mean  to  return  to  the  Golden  City.  Waggons 
were  being  fitted  up  and  provisioned  in  Pretoria 
for  his  use,  and  would  follow  him.  For  the  veld 
was  to  be  his  home  now  once  and  for  all.  He  was 
sick  of  money-making,  politics,  and  all  the  little 
games  and  intrigues  of  finance,  of  artificial  women, 
and  conventions.  He  meant  to  have  done  with 
these  things  and  forget  on  the  brown,  kind  breast 
of  Mother  Africa  that  he  had  ever  known  them. 

And  she  was  coming  with  him ;  the  one  woman 
who  fitted  into  the  wild  places  his  soul  loved;  the 
woman  with  dreams  of  stretching  plains  and  forests 


214  Wild  Honey 

in  her  eyes.  Ah!  that  was  a  woman  with  whom  to 
seek  the  blue  mountains,  to  camp  under  the  stars 
and  forget  cities  and  sins!  It  was  well  that  old 
de  Beer  had  disappeared,  for  Dark  Garden  meant 
to  take  what  was  his  own  at  last,  and  swore  that 
all  the  de  Beers  in  the  world,  dead  or  alive,  should 
not  prevent  him.  He  was  ready  to  defy  Heaven 
and  Hell  to  prevent  him. 

His  cart  drew  near  the  line  of  grey  kopjes  at 
the  end  of  a  long  day's  run.  From  his  outspan 
the  distance  was  too  great  for  any  but  his  own 
keen  eyes  to  distinguish  the  little  ramshackle 
farm. 

Everything  was  as  it  had  been  nearly  two  and 
a  half  years  before.  The  dust  lay  thick  on  the 
sage-green  bush,  and  once  more  a  blood-red  sun 
was  sinking  to  rest  behind  the  horizon  of  massed 
scarlet  and  bronze.  No  one  had  mended  the 
broken-down  kraal,  and  on  a  far  off  rise  a  figure 
that  might  have  been  Yacop  was  picking  up 
dried  cow-dung.  There  was  something  very  like 
the  smell  of  roasting  coffee  on  the  air. 

Garden  was  glad  to  be  alive  with  a  fierce  glad- 
ness. He  felt  a  boy  again,  and  looked  it,  as  he 
strode  across  the  sunburnt  grass.  Yes!  there  was 
Grietje  crouching  by  the  fire.  And  a  white  gown 


Watchers  by  the  Road  215 

flickered  on  the  stoep  as  long  ago  it  had  flickered 
a  signal  to  his  heart.  She  was  waiting  for  him 
there,  as  he  had  always  known  that  she  would  be 
waiting. 

The  baboon  barked  furiously  as  he  approached. 
It  was  not  chained  to  the  tree  any  longer,  but  to 
a  post  by  the  side  of  the  house.  At  the  sound  of 
the  creature's  hoarse  voice  the  old  woman  by  the 
fire  rose  up.  She  did  not  speak  when  she  saw 
that  it  was  Garden,  only  looked  at  him  with 
strange  little  old  eyes,  dark  as  the  unexplored 
depths  of  a  secret  well.  When  he  had  passed  she 
stood  a  moment  gazing  after  him,  then  shuffled 
silently  away  to  the  back  of  the  house. 

He  went  forward  to  the  stoep  and  slowly 
mounted  the  crumbling  stone  steps.  The  old 
woman's  gaze  had  vaguely  disturbed  him.  Or 
was  it  something  in  the  motionless  silence  of  the 
woman  who  sat  gravely  observing  him,  that 
chilled  the  riot  of  his  veins? 

She  wore  her  little  sunbonnet  cappie  as  of  old, 
her  face  so  far  back  in  it  that  nothing  could  be 
seen  but  two  great  eyes.  It  seemed  strange  to 
him  that  she  did  not  rise,  nor  put  out  her  hand  in 
welcome.  Only  sat  there  observing  him  sombrely. 

"Frances,"  he  said  gently,  "I  have  come 
back." 


216  Wild  Honey 

She  sighed.  After  a  moment  she  spoke  from 
her  cappie.  But  it  was  not  a  voice  that  he 
remembered  at  all. 

"You  should  not  have  done  that,  Dark  Garden." 

He  stood  very  still.  It  seemed  as  if  something 
ice  cold  had  entered  his  breast  and  was  slowly 
approaching  his  heart.  His  voice  jerked  a  little 
when  he  spoke  again,  very  humbly. 

"I  should  have  come  long  ago." 

"Yes;  you  should  have  come  long  ago."  There 
was  something  relentless  and  fateful  in  the  sound 
of  that  voice,  so  soft  and  stern.  "Now,  it  is  too 
late." 

"No,"  he  said  violently.  "It  is  not.  I  have 
come  to  take  you  away  and  never  let  you  go  again. 
I  cannot  do  without  you  any  longer." 

She  gave  one  of  her  strange  terrible  sighs,  and 
spite  of  his  firm  words  he  felt  the  cold  thing  creep 
a  little  nearer  to  his  heart. 

"Where  is  your  husband,  Frances?"  God 
knew  what  made  him  ask.  He  cared  little  enough 
for  the  whereabouts  of  old  de  Beer.  Yet  the 
answer  was  extraordinarily  disconcerting. 

"He  is  over  there."  She  made  a  gesture  and 
he  jerked  his  head  round  abruptly.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  seen  in  the  direction  her  hand 
had  indicated.  Nothing  but  the  lonely  tree.  He 


Watchers  by  the  Road  217 

looked  at  her  piercingly  then,  with  a  new  inquiry 
in  his  glance,  and  a  creeping,  clutching  fear  for  her 
mind. 

"I  heard  that  he  was  dead,"  he  said  slowly. 

"Yes,  it  is  true.  He  is  dead,"  she  answered 
quietly,  looking  past  him  to  where  she  had 
pointed.  Spite  of  himself  he  looked  once  more 
in  the  same  direction.  Again  nothing  but  the 
tree. 

But  something  else  arrested  his  eye.  Grietje 
had  come  back  and  was  squatting  by  the  fire, 
and  at  her  side,  playing  in  the  dust,  was  the  tod- 
dling dumpy  figure  of  a  little  child.  It  must  have 
come  round  with  Grietje  from  the  back  of  the 
house.  Certainly  it  had  not  been  there  before. 

"Whose  child  is  that?"  he  asked  in  surprise. 
And  the  stern,  still  voice  from  the  sunbonnet 
answered  him : 

"It  is  your  child  and  mine." 

"My  God!" 

After  a  long  time  he  said  again,  brokenly,  with 
bitter  self -accusation. 

"My  God!  Frances,  forgive  me!  I  did  not 
know.  How  was  I  to  know?" 

She  did  not  answer. 

"Can  you  ever  forgive  me?" 

"Yes,  as  I  hope  for  forgiveness,"  she  said. 


218  Wild  Honey 

There  was  a  dull  solemnity  in  her  tone  and  she 
did  not  touch  the  hand  he  stretched  out.  Un- 
observed by  him  the  little  toddling  child  had 
come  up  and  now  flung  itself  against  its  mother's 
knees  hiding  its  face  in  her  lap.  It  swung  a  little 
sunbonnet  in  its  hand  and  by  the  fading  light  he 
could  see  the  softly  curling  hair,  black  as  his  own, 
and  the  outline  of  a  small  tender  face.  He  knew 
that  her  child  and  his  could  not  but  be  beautiful, 
and  stood  staring  there,  trembling,  the  magic  of 
fatherhood  on  him  and  an  urgent  longing  to  catch 
the  little  creature  in  his  arms.  Suddenly  it  turned 
to  him,  and  in  the  same  moment  the  mother 
raised  a  pale,  warning  finger  and  laid  it  across  her 
lips  in  token  that  he  must  be  silent.  So  he  did 
not  cry  out  at  what  he  saw. 

The  little  face  that  promised  such  flower-like 
beauty  had  been  transformed  into  a  thing  of 
horror  by  a  piece  of  diabolically  clever  tattooing. 
A  monstrous  purple  and  red  spider  sprawled  its 
bloated  form  and  lobster-like  claws  upon  the 
delicate  rose-leaf  skin.  Neither  tarantula  nor 
octopus,  it  possessed  all  the  worst  attributes  of 
each.  It's  puffed-out  body  crouched  in  the  cen- 
tre of  the  face  upon  the  nose  and  cheek  bones, 
and  the  child's  bright  violet  eyes  seemed  the 
staring  strange  eyes  of  the  beast.  Its  claws 


Watchers  by  the  Road          219 

sprayed  and  curled  about  the  mouth,  reached  out 
to  the  ears,  and  lost  themselves  in  tendrils  of  hair 
upon  the  forehead !  The  thing  seemed  too  hideous 
in  conception  to  be  the  work  of  anyone  but  a  mad 
devil,  yet  there  was  in  it  some  sinister  suggestion 
of  human  hands. 

Garden  knew  not  what  supernatural  or  other 
power  kept  him  there,  staring  with  agonised  eyes 
at  the  face  of  his  child,  when  his  every  instinct 
was  to  turn  and  run  as  he  had  never  run  from  any- 
thing in  his  life.  The  child  broke  the  spell  by 
dancing  away  with  a  pretty  elfin  laugh  to  rejoin 
Grietje  by  the  fire.  The  quality  of  her  laugh 
and  the  light  patter  of  her  feet  brought  home  to 
Garden  the  realisation  that  it  was  a  girl  whose 
beauty  had  been  thus  cruelly  destroyed  forever, 
and  a  groan  broke  from  him.  The  woman  watch- 
ing him  with  her  tragic  eyes  saw  sweat  standing 
in  little  beads  on  his  lips. 

"He  did  it,"  she  said.  "That  is  why  he  lies 
dead  over  there"  Her  eyes  travelled  past  Garden 
once  more  to  where  the  lonely  tree  waved  an  arm 
in  the  evening  breeze. 

"He  did  not  come  back  for  eleven  months  after 
you  had  passed,"  she  continued  in  her  sad  relent- 
less voice.  "  My  baby  was  here  when  he  returned 
— so  of  course  he  knew.  But  he  said  nothing. 


22O  Wild  Honey 

I  feared  terribly  for  the  child  at  first,  but  in  the 
end  I  came  to  think  that  he  did  not  care.  Then, 
one  day,  when  my  fears  were  all  asleep,  he  dis- 
appeared, taking  my  baby  with  him  for  three 
days.  Grietje  and  I  roamed  the  veld  seeking 
them,  and  on  the  night  of  the  third  day  as  we 
drew  near  home  again  we  heard  the  child  crying, 
and  coming  in  we  found  it  with  its  lovely  little 
face  all  swollen  and  black  from  the  poisons  he  had 
put  in.  He  was  lying  on  the  bench  laughing,  and 
called  out  to  me  as  I  came  in : 

'"There  is  your  love  child.  But  she  will  have 
to  do  without  love.' ' 

"I  was  worn  out  with  weeping  and  wandering 
for  three  days  and  nights,  but  when  he  said  those 
words  I  rushed  over  to  him  and  killed  him.  I 
killed  him  with  these  hands."  She  looked  down 
on  the  hands  lying  on  her  lap. 

"I  tore  his  throat  open  and  his  life  ran  out 
with  his  blood,"  she  said  softly. 

Garden  had  no  words.  He  stood  looking  at 
the  little  pale  strong  hands  that  were  used  to 
smell  of  apple  blossom,  and  listening  like  a  man 
in  a  dream.  But  it  was  a  bad  dream.  A 
nightmare  that  would  haunt  him  for  the  rest 
of  his  days!  He  was  not  sure  now  that  those 
days  would  be  many,  that  his  life  too  was  not 


Watchers  by  the  Road  221 

passing  with  every  word  spoken  by  that  gentle, 
fateful  voice. 

"Grietje  and  I  buried  him  over  there  under  the 
tree.  No  one  else  knows  but  Xsosa  who  watched 
us  at  the  burying  in  the  dead  of  night." 

Darkness  had  suddenly  enfolded  the  land.  No 
stars  brightened  the  vapouring  gloom  but  occasion- 
ally the  fire  threw  out  a  blood-red  finger  showing 
Grietje  cuddling  the  child  to  her  bosom,  crooning 
some  Kaffir  lullaby  over  its  head. 

"What  is  to  be  done,"  muttered  Garden,  in  the 
voice  of  a  man  who  has  come  to  the  end  of  all 
ways.  He  looked  at  her,  but  her  face  was,  as  ever, 
hidden  in  the  cappie.  He  had  not  seen  it  once  in 
all  this  terrible  hour  and  now  he  knew  he  would 
never  see  it. 

"What  is  there  to  do?"  she  said  sombrely. 
"Grietje  and  I  must  stay  here,  with  him,  until 
we  grow  old  and  die." 

"But  .  .  .  the  child?" 

"Ah!"  She  sighed  her  deep  sigh.  "She  will 
grow  up  perhaps — and  in  her  turn  watch  the 
road." 


The 
Mollmeit  of  the  Mountain 


223 


The 
Mollmeit1  of  the  Mountain 

WHEN  the  number  of  coloured  pupils  attend- 
ing the  Friend  for  Little  Children  School 
reached  one  hundred  and  fifty,  it  was  decided  that 
Sister  Joanna  ought  to  have  the  assistance  of  a 
white  pupil-teacher  as  well  as  the  three  half-caste 
young  girls  she  had  already  trained.  The  several 
High- Dutch  ladies  of  Brandersberg  who  interested 
themselves  in  Sister  Joanna's  good  work,  both  by 
collecting  subscriptions  for  it  abroad  and  helping 
to  place  the  young  girls  in  domestic  service  after 
they  had  left  school,  determined  to  advertise  in 
the  Free  State  newspapers  for  a  girl  who  would 
not  only  teach  in  the  school,  but  also  live  with 
Sister  Joanna  at  the  school  cottage,  and  help 
with  the  simple  domestic  arrangements.  For 
Sister  Joanna  kept  no  servant;  she  would  have 
considered  it  extravagant  to  do  so  while  she  had 
health  and  strength ;  besides,  she  had  lived  so  long 
1  Dutch  for  madwoman  or  witch, 
is  225 


226  Wild  Honey 

in  the  Colony  that  there  was  nothing  in  the  way 
of  domestic  and  everyday  housework  she  was  not 
able  for.  She  was  a  good  cook,  could  make  her 
own  soap,  smoke  her  own  legs  of  mutton,  and  grow 
her  own  vegetables.  She  had  a  neat  little  garden 
round  the  cottage  (which  stood  some  hundred  and 
fifty  yards  from  the  school),  and  a  corner  of  it 
was  devoted  to  herbs,  for  she  was  deeply  learned 
in  the  science  of  herbal  healing,  and  could  cure  a 
headache,  a  varicose  vein,  a  black  eye,  or  supply 
you  with  a  sleeping  draught  that  would  make  you 
forget  you  had  ever  known  neuralgia;  all  out  of 
one  little  corner  of  her  garden.  Besides  this,  she 
managed  with  great  skill  and  discipline  the  large 
school  of  coloured  boys  and  girls  which  she  had 
started  herself  with  half  a  dozen  children,  some 
fifteen  or  sixteen  years  before ;  and  yet  found  time 
to  tend  the  sick,  harass  the  lazy,  and  manage  the 
affairs  generally  of  everyone  in  the  native  Location. 
However,  though  she  would  not  admit  it,  she  was 
beginning  to  look  old  and  worn,  and  it  was  cer- 
tainly a  good  idea  to  get  someone  to  help  her  in 
her  busy  life. 

The  advertisement  brought  several  answers, 
but  none  of  them  so  satisfactory  as  that  of  a 
young  Bloemhof  girl  called  Mary  Russel.  Mary 
it  seemed  had  not  only  received  a  good  education 


The  Mollmeit  of  the  Mountain    227 

and  passed  her  "Matric"  (a  rather  unusual 
thing  in  a  girl  of  seventeen),  but  being  the  eld- 
est of  a  large  and  not  at  all  wealthy  family  was 
also  extremely  domesticated.  The  Brandersberg 
ladies  thought  well  of  her  letter  of  application, 
and  better  still  of  Mary  herself  when  she  arrived, 
pretty  and  fresh  and  kind,  with  a  firm  mouth  and 
a  courageous  glance  in  her  grey  eyes.  Though  of 
English  extraction  she  was  colonial  born,  a  further 
qualification  for  the  place,  for  Colonials  though 
kind  and  just  do  not  spoil  natives  by  making  too 
much  of  them  as  English  people  are  apt  to  do. 
No  sooner  was  Mary  Russel  installed  than  she 
became  a  great  favourite  with  the  children,  and 
the  Brandersberg  ladies  feeling  that  they  had  done 
well  by  so  popular  a  character  as  Sister  Joanna 
thereafter  turned  their  attention  to  their  own 
affairs.  The  large  and  flourishing  town  of  Bran- 
dersberg lay  within  the  shadow  of  a  mighty  berg 
that  in  any  other  country  would  be  called  a 
mountain,  and  that  even  in  Africa  was  considered 
worthy  of  a  title.  Thaba  Inkosisan  it  was  called, 
and  when  the  sun  set,  its  great  jagged  shadow  was 
flung  far  across  the  veld,  just  missing  Branders- 
berg, but  falling  full  and  black  upon  the  native 
Location;  and  this  was  considered  a  curious  and 
sinister  thing  by  the  coloured  population,  for  it 


228  Wild  Honey 

was  upon  their  village  and  in  their  hearts  that  the 
mountain  had  cast  sorrow  and  fear. 

The  Friend  for  Little  Children  School  was  close 
at  the  foot  of  the  berg,  and  a  road  ran  direct  from 
it  to  the  Location,  so  that  the  children  could  go  to 
and  fro  between  their  homes  and  the  school  with- 
out approaching  the  Dutch  town;  and  perhaps 
this  was  one  of  the  reasons  why  Sister  Joanna's 
work  was  as  popular  with  the  whites  as  with  the 
natives,  for  in  the  Free  State  the  whites  did  not 
care  for  their  children  to  mix  with  the  natives,  and 
any  arrangement  to  keep  the  two  races  apart 
was  greatly  favoured.  But  the  situation  of  the 
school  was  a  cause  of  inquietude  amongst  the 
coloured  parents;  not  because  it  was  too  far 
from  the  town,  but  because  it  was  too  near 
the  berg.  For  Thaba  Inkosisan  was  haunted  by 
a  mollmeit,  and  a  mollmeit  is  no  friend  to  little 
children. 

The  haunting  of  the  mountain  dated  from  many 
years  back.  When  Mary  Russel  heard  the  story, 
she  knew  that  the  horrible  tragedy  in  which  it 
originated  must  have  occurred  about  the  time  she 
was  born,  for  it  was  in  that  year  that  the  Basutoes 
fought  in  the  Free  State,  surrounding  and  putting 
many  a  town  into  a  state  of  siege.  Brandersberg 
had  been  among  the  beleaguered  towns,  and  the 


The  Mollmeit  of  the  Mountain    229 

inhabitants  of  several  farms  near  by  had  been 
put  to  the  assegai  by  the  fierce  Basuto  warriors. 

Now,  on  the  other  side  of  the  mountain,  about 
thirty  miles  from  the  town,  there  had  stood  a  little 
stone  farmhouse  which  an  old  Boer  had  built 
with  an  eye  to  defence  in  case  of  war.  Its  windows 
were  small  and  high,  its  doors  and  shutters  of 
iron,  and  there  was  nothing  inflammable  any- 
where in  its  outer  structure.  When  the  Boer 
died,  the  place  was  bought  by  an  Englishman  with 
a  pretty  wife  and  little  daughter.  Just  before 
the  trouble  with  the  Basutoes,  another  woman  came 
to  supplement  the  little  family,  a  certain  Janet 
Fink,  middle-aged,  well-educated,  and  recently 
arrived  in  Africa  on  an  emigrant  ship.  She  had 
been  engaged  by  an  agent  at  the  Cape  to  come  to 
the  farm  as  a  sort  of  combined  nursery  governess 
and  mother's  Help.  The  people  of  Brandersberg 
who  knew  the  Englishman  and  his  wife  and  liked 
them,  had  not  had  time  to  make  the  acquaintance 
of  the  Help  before  the  war  with  the  natives  broke 
out  and  the  town  went  into  laager.  Unfortunately 
this  family  was  one  of  those  cut  off  from  the  town. 
The  Englishman  had  indeed  been  warned,  but  he 
pooh-poohed  the  idea  of  war,  or  only  heeded  it 
enough  to  postpone  going  in  as  usual  to  the  town 
to  get  the  monthly  supply  of  provisions.  But 


230  Wild  Honey 

eventually  supplies  ran  so  low  that  he  was  obliged 
one  day  to  set  forth  after  giving  careful  instruc- 
tions for  the  defence  of  the  farm  in  case  of  attack. 
He  had,  however,  delayed  too  long,  and  on  his  way 
into  the  town  he  was  met  by  the  Basutoes  out  for 
killing,  and  put  to  the  assegai.  A  contingent 
of  the  main  impi  then  went  to  the  farmhouse  and 
tried  to  take  it,  but  the  women  had  seen  them 
coming,  and  received  them  so  resolutely,  and  with 
such  well-aimed  shots  from  the  high  windows  that 
having  more  important  things  on  hand  than  the 
taking  of  two  women  they  presently  proceeded 
on  their  way,  leaving  two  men  behind  with  in- 
structions to  watch  the  house  and  kill  the  women 
if  possible;  if  not,  to  starve  them  out.  Being  well 
informed  (as  Kaffirs  always  are  at  such  times), 
they  were  aware  that  though  there  was  water  in 
the  house  there  was  no  meat  or  meal  to  speak  of, 
and  that  the  little  garrison  could  not  hold  out  for 
more  than  a  few  days.  It  held  out,  however,  for 
ten  days,  during  which  time  smoke  went  up  every 
morning  from  the  chimney,  and  whenever  the 
Basutoes  made  a  feint  of  approaching  they  were 
received  with  rifle  fire.  On  the  eleventh  day, 
however,  there  was  no  smoke,  and  towards  evening 
the  two  Basutoes  feeling  pretty  sure  of  their  prey 
crept  close,  meaning  to  try  for  the  chimney. 


The  Mollmeit  of  the  Mountain    231 

Within  ten  yards  of  the  house  one  of  them  was 
picked  off  with  a  bullet  through  his  head,  and  the 
other  turning  to  run  got  a  shot  in  his  leg  that  put 
him  out  of  business,  but  in  spite  of  which  he 
managed  to  crawl  away  into  the  bush,  where  a 
day  or  two  later  he  was  found  by  a  troop  of  Dutch 
Artillery.  Under  the  lash  of  the  sjambok  he  was 
induced  to  tell  all  he  knew  about  the  farmhouse, 
and  the  Dutchmen,  at  length  convinced  that  the 
place  was  not  an  ambush  but  really  contained  the 
two  white  women  and  child,  rode  up  to  it  and 
found,  not  what  they  expected,  but  many  sur- 
prising things.  First  of  all,  instead  of  signs  of 
famine  there  was  every  evidence  that  many  meals 
had  been  eaten;  plates  with  remains  of  meat  and 
gravy  were  scattered  about,  and  a  saucepan 
contained  the  leavings  of  a  stew  that  had  been 
curried  and  flavoured  with  onions.  Plainly  fuel 
had  given  out,  for  every  wooden  thing  in  the 
scantily  furnished  kitchen  had  been  chopped  up 
and  burned.  The  Boers  were  deeply  puzzled 
until  in  an  adjoining  room  the  body  of  the  farmer's 
wife  was  found  lying  in  a  corner  covered  with  old 
sacks.  She  had  been  dead  for  many  days,  and 
the  manner  of  her  dying  was  swift  and  sudden; 
there  was  a  knife  deeply  imbedded  in  her  back. 
When  later  the  charred  skull  and  thigh  bones  of  a 


232  Wild  Honey 

little  child  were  raked  out  of  the  ashes  in  the  fire- 
place the  dark  tragedy  was  made  clearer  still, 
and  the  rough  men  turned  from  the  scene  with 
sick  hearts  and  grim  mouths.  There  were  hus- 
bands and  fathers  amongst  them,  and  it  would 
have  gone  hard  with  her  if  in  that  hour  they  had 
come  across  the  mother's  Help  who  in  so  hideous 
a  fashion  had  helped  herself.  But  they  never 
found  her.  Whether  after  escaping  from  the 
house  she  was  caught  and  killed  by  the  Basutoes, 
or,  lost  in  the  bush  had  been  eaten  by  wild  beasts, 
or  wandering  on  had  reached  some  town  and 
under  an  assumed  name  told  a  plausible  tale  and 
been  taken  in  and  cared  for,  had  never  been  dis- 
covered. Only,  presently  in  some  strange  way 
a  story  got  about  that  she  had  fled  to  Thaba 
Inkosisan,  and  was  living  there  in  a  cave,  sub- 
sisting on  wild  roots  and  rock  rabbits. 

The  tale  first  got  credence  among  others  be- 
sides the  natives  on  the  disappearance  from  some 
transport  waggons  outspanned  near  the  mountain 
of  a  little  Kaffir  child.  It  was  declared  by  the 
Kaffirs  that  the  "flesh-eating  woman"  from  the 
farm  had  turned  into  a  mollmeit  with  cravings 
for  human  flesh,  and  that  the  children  of  Branders- 
berg  would  never  be  safe  again  while  she  lived 
in  the  mountain.  Mollmeits,  according  to  them, 


The  Mollmeit  of  the  Mountain    233 

were  like  tigers  which  having  once  tasted  human 
blood  find  no  other  so  much  to  their  liking;  and, 
though  other  food  must  of  needs  be  eaten,  the  evil 
craving  comes  upon  them  at  times  like  a  madness 
and  must  be  satisfied.  Most  of  the  Dutch  people 
scoffed  at  this  ghoulish  tale,  saying  that  it  was 
more  likely  that  the  Kaffir  child  had  fallen  down 
a  ravine,  and  thereafter  been  eaten  by  jackals. 
But  some  there  were  who  believed  in  the  mollmeit 
theory,  and  spoke  of  searching  the  mountain. 
However,  the  idea  came  to  nothing.  There  are 
too  many  little  piccannins  in  Africa  for  one  more 
or  less  to  make  any  difference  except  to  its  mother ; 
and  the  sorrows  of  a  Kaffir  woman  do  not  count 
for  much  in  some  parts  of  the  world.  Moreover, 
the  searching  of  Thaba  Inkosisan  was  not  an  affair 
to  be  lightly  undertaken;  its  sides  were  steep  and 
rough,  with  great  inaccessible  cliffs  in  some  parts, 
and  masses  of  bush  growing  thick  and  close  as 
moss.  There  were  known  to  be  caves  too,  and 
cracks  and  fissures  that  led  far  into  the  mountain- 
side ;  but  the  notion  of  anyone  living  in  such  places 
seemed  to  the  Dutch  impracticable  and  ridiculous. 
At  any  rate,  nothing  was  done,  and  with  the  passing 
of  months  and  years,  the  legend  of  the  mollmeit 
had  almost  died  out  when  another  child  disap- 
peared— a  little  orphan  this  time,  whom  no  one 


234  Wild  Honey 

missed  at  first  because  it  was  no  one's  business 
to  look  after  her;  thus  some  days  passed  before 
her  loss  was  realised  and  then  it  seemed  rather  late 
to  make  more  than  a  perfunctory  search,  for  if 
she  was  lost  in  the  bush  (and  it  must  be  remembered 
that  the  bush  grows  right  up  to  the  outskirts  of 
many  South  African  towns)  she  was  probably 
already  dead  from  starvation  or  sunstroke.  A 
search  was  made  in  a  half-hearted  sort  of  way, 
and  mainly  because  Sister  Joanna  agitated  for 
it;  but  no  one  bothered  for  long  about  a  little 
half-caste  orphan  child.  Besides,  the  coloured 
people,  whom  the  matter  mostly  concerned,  said 
that  it  was  no  use  looking  for  what  was  already 
eaten  and  digested  up  in  the  caves  of  Thaba 
Inkosisan;  which  clearly  showed  what  their  solu- 
tion of  the  problem  was. 

It  was  long  before  the  mollmeit  was  heard 
of  again.  True,  the  superstitious  and  fearful 
tried  to  make  out  that  little  Anna  Elaine,  the 
youngest  of  a  large  coloured  family,  had  fallen  a 
victim  to  the  witch ;  but  to  all  sensible  people  it 
was  plain  that  the  child  had  been  drowned  at 
the  Sunday-school  picnic.  She  was  not  missed 
until  the  children  got  home,  and  then  it  was 
remembered  that  when  last  seen  she  was  throwing 
stones  into  the  spruit  swollen  with  recent  rains 


The  Mollmeit  of  the  Mountain    235 

near  whose  banks  the  picnic  had  been  held. 
Sister  Joanna,  with  whom  the  child  had  been  a 
special  favourite,  worried  the  police  until  they  con- 
sented to  drag  the  spruit  for  some  six  miles;  but 
the  body  was  never  recovered. 

The  fourth  disappearance  created  more  stir 
than  any  of  the  others.  For  one  thing  it  was  the 
fourth,  and  when  four  children  have  mysteriously 
disappeared  within  the  space  of  fourteen  years 
it  is  time  to  be  up  and  doing,  said  both  the  Dutch 
and  the  coloured  population  of  Brandersberg.  Fur- 
ther, it  was  no  orphan  or  unwanted  child  this  time, 
but  Susie  Brown,  the  pet  child  of  a  highly  respect- 
able coloured  carpenter.  The  little  thing  had 
started  for  school  one  morning,  and  had  just  simply 
never  arrived.  From  the  time  she  set  out,  an  hour 
late,  on  the  long  empty  road  that  skirted  the  foot 
of  the  berg  no  one  had  seen  her.  It  was  as  though 
some  great  asvogel  had  swooped  down  from  the 
skies  and  carried  her  off.  Indeed  some  people 
were  inclined  to  think  this  the  answer  to  the 
riddle.  Possibly,  they  said,  a  great  bird  of  prey 
had  its  nest  in  a  secret  place  of  the  mountain,  and 
fed  its  young  thus!  At  any  rate  it  was  time  for 
the  mountain  to  be  searched  and  the  mystery 
made  an  end  of.  And  the  mountain  was  searched, 
from  end  to  end,  by  a  large  band  of  men.  It  is 


236  Wild  Honey 

true  that  all  the  inner  crevices  could  not  be  ex- 
plored, nor  the  highest  cliffs,  but  the  searchers 
were  satisfied  if  others  were  not,  that  neither 
monstrous  bird  nor  human  monster  occupied 
Thaba  Inkosisan. 

So  again  with  the  passing  of  years,  the  weird 
legend  died  away,  and  at  the  time  of  Mary  Russel's 
coming  to  the  school  it  was  almost  forgotten, 
except  by  loving  mothers  who  warned  their 
children  to  keep  as  far  away  from  the  mountain 
as  possible,  and  the  children  themselves  who  never 
wearied  of  embroidering  and  embellishing  the  fear- 
some tale,  handing  it  on  to  one  another,  and  some- 
times frightening  a  timid  child  into  a  fit  with  it. 

Mary  one  day  in  the  schoolyard  came  upon  a 
little  group  who  having  finished  their  tiffin  were 
seated  in  a  ring  listening  with  scared  eyes  and 
parted  lips  to  the  story  (with  variations  and 
improvements)  of  Susie  Brown's  disappearance. 

"...  and  the  mollmeit  chose  her  because 
she  had  such  nice,  fat,  round  arms  and  legs  .  .  . 
just  like  Rosalie  Paton's  there,"  announced  the 
historian,  and  a  chubby  pale-brown  maiden  of 
five  gave  a  howl  of  terror.  Mary  sat  down  and 
took  the  child  in  her  arms,  roundly  scolding  the 
story-teller  while  she  cuddled  the  soft  fuzzy  head 
against  her  breast.  For  it  must  not  be  supposed 


The  Mollmeit  of  the  Mountain    237 

that  these  little  coloured  children  are  not  just  as 
sweet  and  pretty  and  attractive  as  white  children. 
Hardly  any  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  Brandersberg 
native  Location  were  real  negroes.  The  negro 
races  mostly  live  in  kraals  far  from  the  towns, 
speaking  no  language  but  that  of  their  tribe, 
and  being  classed  under  the  general  heading  of 
"Kaffirs."  The  scholars  of  the  Friend  for  Little 
Children  School  were  mostly  the  offspring  of  pale 
brown  people — "Cape  folks"  who  have  long  hair 
and  Malay  blood  in  them,  and  natives  of  St. 
Helena,  who  are  also  long-haired,  but  rather  dusky; 
some  were  of  Koranna  or  Hottentot  breed  (and 
these  were  not  beautiful),  but  many  were  the 
children  of  mixed  marriages  between  "poor 
whites"  and  Cape  natives,  and  these  were  nearly 
always  pretty  and  charming-looking.  The  language 
used  generally  amongst  themselves  was  a  kind  of 
Low-Dutch  patois,  but  all  spoke  English  well, 
and  were  taught  in  that  language. 

Little  Rosalie  Paton's  mother  was  a  Cape 
woman,  and  a  very  disreputable  one,  the  drunkard 
of  the  village,  in  fact ;  but  it  was  probable  that  the 
child's  father  was  a  white  man,  for  except  for  the 
fuzziness  of  her  long  black  hair  and  the  brilliance 
of  her  great  dark  eyes,  she  was  as  like  a  pretty 
little  white  child  as  she  could  be. 


238  Wild  Honey 

When  Mary  had  thoroughly  scolded  the  children 
for  talking  about  the  mollmeit,  she  carried  the 
still  weeping  Rosalie  with  her  up  to  the  cottage 
and  her  own  room  there.  A  little  petting  soon 
dispersed  the  tears,  and  then  Mary  produced 
her  trinket-box,  and  allowed  the  child  to  look  at 
its  contents.  A  poorly  brought-up  colonial  girl 
possesses  little  in  the  way  of  jewellery  beyond  a 
necklace  and  bracelet  or  two  made  by  her  own 
clever  fingers  from  the  seeds  of  the  sponspeck  melon 
and  a  few  imitation  pearls ;  but  Mary  had  been  a  fa- 
vourite wherever  she  went  and  had  received  many 
little  presents.  There  was  a  necklace  of  jagged  red 
corals  which  her  mother  had  put  round  her  neck  as 
a  baby,  and  that  Rosalie  gurgled  so  joyously  over 
that  Mary,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  clasped  it 
round  the  little  dusky  neck  and  told  the  child  that 
she  might  wear  it  that  night  at  the  magic-lantern 
entertainment.  For  the  Michaelmas  holidays  were 
approaching,  and  Sister  Joanna  was  going  to  cele- 
brate the  break  in  the  school  term  by  giving  one  of 
her  frequent  little  entertainments,  only  this  time  a 
new  and  up-to-date  magic  lantern,  sent  by  admir- 
ing friends  across  the  sea,  was  to  make  its  debut, 
and  all  the  children  were  wildly  excited  about  it. 
In  the  midst  of  Rosalie's  joyful  caperings,  the  voice 
of  Sister  Joanna  was  heard  calling: 


The  Mollmeit  of  the  Mountain    239 

"Mary,  Mary,  where  are  you,  my  child?  Isn't 
it  time  for  the  school  bell?"  And  Mary  jumped 
up  guiltily  (she  had  forgotten  that  the  bell  was 
to  be  rung  a  quarter  of  an  hour  earlier  that  day), 
just  as  Sister  appeared  in  the  doorway  filling  it 
with  her  plump,  large  presence.  She  was  a  short 
woman  who  in  spite  of  her  great  activity  could  not 
keep  down  stoutness.  Her  large  round  face  was 
pallid  with  the  dead  pallor  peculiar  to  people  who 
have  lived  long  in  hot  climates,  but  lighted  by  an 
unfailing  smile  of  cheerfulness  and  sky-blue  eyes. 
She  wore  a  quaint  garb  of  black  alpaca  made  in 
somewhat  monk-like  fashion,  long  and  full,  and 
confined  by  a  cord  at  the  waist,  while  on  her  head 
was  an  arrangement  that  resembled  a  cross  between 
a  coal-scuttle  and  a  Turkish  woman's  yashma.  She 
belonged  to  no  Order,  but  was  an  Order  unto  herself, 
and  made  her  uniform  with  her  own  hands ;  and  if 
it  was  a  quaint  and  funny  one  no  one  laughed, 
for  Sister  Joanna  was  both  liked  and  respected. 

When  Mary  had  told  the  tale  of  Rosalie's 
trouble,  Sister  burst  into  her  jolly  laugh. 

"The  poor  little  thing!  Was  it  afraid  for  its 
nice  little  fat  brown  body,"  she  said  tenderly, 
and  taking  Rosalie  on  her  knee  rolled  up  the 
child's  cotton  sleeves,  looked  at  the  plump  pale 
arms,  and  pinched  the  soft  neck. 


240  Wild  Honey 

"Let  me  catch  any  old  mollmeit  trying  to  eat 
my  Rosalie!"  she  said  fondly.  "Run  along, 
Mary,  and  ring  the  bell.  Get  lessons  over  early. 
Tell  the  children  I  am  letting  them  off  an  hour 
earlier  so  that  they  may  have  time  to  curl  their 
hair  for  to-night."  She  laughed  merrily  at  her 
own  little  jest,  well  knowing  that  hair  curling  is  an 
unnecessary  item  in  a  coloured  child's  toilette. 
She  was  always  full  of  merry  little  jokes  of  this 
kind,  and  the  natives  being  a  laughter-loving  lot 
rejoiced  in  them  as  much  as  she  did. 

Mary  hurried  away  leaving  Rosalie  sitting 
happily  on  the  old  woman's  knees,  and  did  not 
see  her  again  until  during  the  afternoon  Sister 
carried  her  into  the  schoolroom  fast  asleep. 

"Oh,  Sister!  How  can  you  carry  that  great 
fat  thing!  You'll  be  tired  out  before  to-night," 
said  Mary  reproachfully,  for  she  thought  Sister 
looked  even  paler  than  usual.  And  sure  enough 
that  night  the  old  lady  was  too  tired  to  eat  any 
supper  before  starting  for  the  entertainment. 
She  looked  as  haggard  as  death,  though  her  sky- 
blue  eyes  were  brighter  than  ever  and  full  of 
excitement;  but  the  beautifully  broiled  mutton 
chop  Mary  had  prepared,  with  potatoes  baked  in 
their  skins  lay  on  her  plate  untouched.  Even 
when  Mary  made  a  cup  of  foamy  coffee  according 


The  Mollmeit  of  the  Mountain    241 

to  Sister's  own  famous  receipt  it  was  wasted. 
Mary,  in  all  the  months  she  had  been  at  the 
cottage,  had  never  known  Sister  with  anything 
but  an  excellent  appetite,  and  was  troubled,  and 
before  leaving  for  the  school  she  cut  the  meat  from 
the  uneaten  chop  and  made  it  into  a  sandwich, 
while  the  potatoes  she  sliced  into  a  nice  salad 
with  a  tiny  onion  chopped  over  it.  This  little 
repast  she  put  on  a  table  in  Sister's  room.  They 
were  simple  in  their  ways  at  the  cottage. 

Down  at  the  school,  the  children  were  buzzing 
like  bees  outside  the  closed  door,  while  Sister  and 
the  pupil-teachers  within  put  the  final  touches  to 
the  magic-lantern  arrangements.  Mary  fished 
Rosalie  out  of  the  crowd,  and  found  that  though 
she  was  still  wearing  her  torn,  school  frock,  she  had 
been  washed,  her  hair  was  braided,  and  she  was 
proudly  sporting  the  coral  necklace.  She  still 
seemed  more  than  half  asleep,  but  she  blinked 
happily  at  Mary. 

The  entertainment  was  an  enormous  success. 
The  magic  lantern  worked  like  magic  indeed,  and 
there  were  howls  of  regret  when  at  nine  o'clock 
the  last  slide  was  shown.  Sister  Joanna  made 
an  announcement  that  during  holiday  week  she 
would  give  another  exhibition  for  the  parents, 
and  the  children  then  danced  and  partook  of  the 

16 


242  Wild  Honey 

repast  of  buns  and  ginger-beer  that  kind  Sister 
had  provided.  They  were  to  go  home  at  half- 
past  nine  punctually,  but  before  that  time  Sister 
who  was  very  tired  left  Mary  in  charge  and  went 
home. 

"I'll  see  the  children  safely  off, "  Mary  promised. 

"Oh,  the  children  will  be  all  right,"  said  Sister. 
"It's  my  lantern  and  slides  I'm  thinking  about; — 
pack  them  safely  and  put  them  away  in  the  cup- 
board, Mary,  or  sure  enough  those  rapscallions 
who  come  to  clean  up  in  the  morning  will  be 
riddling  with  them  and  break  something." 

Mary  promised  not  to  leave  until  everything 
was  locked  up  safely,  and  all  the  lights  put  out. 

"You  needn't  worry  about  anything,  Sister. 
Just  get  to  bed  and  have  a  good  rest." 

Yet  when  about  an  hour  later  she  came  up  the 
slope  to  the  cottage,  she  saw  by  the  faint  red  and 
purple  gleams  shining  from  one  of  the  windows 
that  Sister  was  still  in  the  Oratory.  She  felt 
vexed  to  think  that  the  old  soul  was  at  her  prayers 
instead  of  being  in  bed,  but  knew  better  than  to 
disturb  her;  and  being  very  tired  herself  was  not 
long  getting  into  bed.  She  went  to  sleep  thinking 
happily  of  the  coming  week  of  holidays  to  be 
spent  with  her  family  at  Bloemhof.  There  were 
only  two  more  days  of  school,  and  then  on  Satur- 


The  Mollmeit  of  the  Mountain    243 

day  morning  she  was  to  leave  by  a  carrier's  cart 
and  would  reach  her  home  by  Saturday  afternoon. 

During  the  night,  she  was  much  disturbed  by 
the  howling  of  her  dog  Fingo  who  was  fastened 
in  the  yard.  She  had  been  allowed  to  bring 
Fingo  from  Bloemhof,  and  he  had  always  slept 
in  the  kitchen,  and  been  allowed  the  run  of  the 
house,  but  that  very  afternoon  Sister  had  accused 
him  of  rooting  in  the  garden,  and  insisted  on  his 
being  kept  tied  up  in  future.  Whether  it  was  the 
curtailing  of  his  freedom  that  desolated  Fingo,  it 
is  hard  to  say,  but  certainly  Mary  had  never 
before  heard  him  make  such  tragic  and  doleful 
sounds.  He  at  last  left  off,  and  she  got  to  sleep, 
but  it  seemed  only  a  moment  later  that  she  was 
awakened  by  a  loud  thumping  on  the  front  door, 
and  sleepily  putting  out  her  hand  for  the  matches, 
she  suddenly  realised  that  the  light  of  early  dawn 
was  already  in  the  room.  Jumping  out  of  bed, 
she  threw  a  cloak  over  her  nightdress  and  went 
to  open  the  door.  As  she  passed  through  the 
dining-room,  she  heard  Sister  also  hurrying  out 
of  bed. 

"  Someone  must  be  ill,  Mary,"  she  called  through 
her  door,  and  as  if  in  answer  came  another  loud 
knocking  and  a  voice  crying  in  bitter  trouble. 

' '  Sister  Joanna — Oh !     Sister  Joanna ! ' ' 


244  Wild  Honey 

"What,  my  poor  thing?  What?"  called  back 
the  old  woman,  and  came  floundering  half -dressed 
from  her  room  as  Mary  opened  the  door. 

A  coloured  woman  was  standing  there,  haggard 
and  dishevelled,  her  hair  hanging  in  streaks  about 
her  wild  face,  fear  in  her  bloodshot  eyes.  Her 
clothes  were  rumpled  as  though  they  had  been 
slept  in,  and  she  was  panting  and  covered  with 
dust.  A  picture  of  misery ! 

"Is  my  little  Rosalie  here?"  she  gasped,  and 
with  the  question  came  a  sickening  odour  of  stale 
brandy.  It  was  then  they  recognised  her  for 
Rosalie  Paton's  mother. 

"Here!  Why,  of  course  not,  Mrs.  Paton, " 
cried  Mary. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Sister  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"  Then  the  mollmeit's  got  her, "  wailed  the  woman 
distractedly.  "Oh,  Jesus!  The  mollmeit' s  got  my 
child!" 

"But  what  do  you  mean?"  repeated  Sister  in  a 
sterner  voice,  for  she  saw  that  the  woman  was  on 
the  verge  of  hysteria.  "Rosalie  went  home  with 
all  the  other  children  last  night,  I  suppose!  Do 
you  mean  to  say  they  didn't  bring  her  to  you?" 

"No!"  said  the  woman,  and  in  her  voice  was 
dreadful  despair,  "God  forgive  me,  Sister, 


The  Mollmeit  of  the  Mountain    245 

I  was  drunk — and  asleep — it  was  not  till  this 
morning  that  I  knew  she  hadn't  been  home — 
at  least  she  wasn't  in  the  house — since  then 
I've  been  to  a  dozen  houses,  and  no  one  knows 
anything,  but  some  of  the  children  say  that 
on  their  way  home  they  were  frightened  by  some- 
thing that  jumped  out  from  behind  a  rock  down 
there  where  the  berg  comes  near  the  road — 

"Stuff  and  nonsense!"  broke  in  Sister  scorn- 
fully. "Listening  to  children's  tales!  You  just 
go  back  to  the  village,  Sarah  Paton,  and  look  for 
your  child.  She's  there  right  enough.  Someone 
has  kept  her  for  the  night,  knowing  the  state  you 
were  in.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself, 
my  woman.  Be  off  now  and  find  her,  and  when 
you  have  found  her  come  straight  back  here  and 
tell  me,  and  see  if  you  can  turn  over  a  new  leaf 
after  this." 

Thus  with  good-natured  scoldings  she  waved 
the  more  than  half-comforted  woman  from  the 
door. 

"Get  back  to  your  bed,  Mary,  child,  and  sleep 
a  little  longer.  It's  not  five  o'clock  yet,  and  we've 
earned  a  little  lie-abed  after  the  tiring  day  yes- 
terday. That  child's  all  right — safely  tucked 
up  in  some  kind  soul's  bed,  you  may  be  sure.  It 
will  be  a  lesson  to  that  good-for-nothing  hussy." 


246  Wild  Honey 

But  Mary  though  she  went  back  to  bed  was  too 
disturbed  to  sleep.  She  was  haunted  by  the  fear 
of  harm  having  come  to  little  Rosalie,  and  could 
not  rid  herself  of  foreboding.  Why  had  she  not 
gone  down  the  road  herself  with  the  children? 
She  had  indeed  watched  them  for  awhile  from  the 
school  door,  and  had  adjured  the  elders  to  take 
the  hands  of  the  little  ones  and  see  them  all  safely 
to  their  doors.  But  well  she  knew  the  careless, 
irresponsible  nature  of  the  coloured  race!  No 
doubt  the  little  ones  had  soon  been  allowed  to  lag 
behind.  Even  so,  what  harm  could  befall  them 
on  that  straight  road  not  three  quarters  of  a  mile 
long?  Of  course  the  talk  of  a  mollmeit  was  silly 
and  yet — and  yet —  Oh !  it  was  no  use  staying 
in  bed,  worrying  and  fretting.  She  jumped  out 
and  busied  herself  getting  breakfast,  making  the 
coffee  on  a  little  oil-stove,  so  that  she  might  have 
the  wood  coals  for  the  toast.  She  then  looked 
into  the  larder,  set  the  rest  of  yesterday's  milk  in 
soup  plates  to  thicken  for  dessert  at  the  mid-day 
meal ;  put  a  little  more  pepper  and  salt  on  the  neck 
of  mutton  that  was  for  dinner,  and  turned  it  in 
its  dish,  and  placed  fresh  wet  cloths  round  the 
big  lump  of  butter  that  must  last  till  the  end  of 
the  week.  By  that  time,  Sister  also  was  dressed, 
and  together  according  to  custom,  they  went  into 


The  Mollmeit  of  the  Mountain    247 

the  Oratory  and  said  Matins  before  the  small 
altar.  Although  she  was  not  a  real  nun,  Sister 
Joanna  never  missed  saying  any  of  the  daily 
Offices,  and  at  the  morning  and  evening  ones 
Mary  always  joined  her. 

It  was  a  nice  little  Oratory,  the  floor  covered 
with  a  soft  hand-made  rug  of  red  and  brown  wool- 
len scraps  like  little  autumn  leaves,  sewn  one 
above  the  other;  several  chairs  with  kneeling-stools 
before  them,  and  an  altar-table  that  no  one  would 
have  guessed  was  made  of  rough  packing-case 
wood  for  it  was  hidden  by  a  scarlet  cloth  and  linen 
embroidered  by  the  school  children,  and  there  were 
flowers  and  candles  upon  it.  The  many  small 
panes  of  the  one  window  had  been  glorified  by 
means  of  scarlet  and  purple  tissue  paper,  which 
cut  in  sheets  and  pasted  on  alternate  panes  made 
an  excellent  substitute  for  stained  glass,  and  when 
the  sun  shone  through  and  fell  in  a  flood  of  colour 
upon  the  patch-work  rug,  Mary  felt  a  subtle 
pleasure  woven  amongst  her  prayers.  Under  the 
window,  a  large  dark  oaken  chest  lent  a  further 
air  of  ecclesiasticism  to  the  little  room.  It  was 
worm-eaten  and  full  of  cracks  and  holes,  but  was 
reputed  to  have  been  part  of  the  furniture  of  a 
church,  and  Sister  loved  it,  and  kept  the  altar 
cloths  and  holy  books  in  it. 


248  Wild  Honey 

As  the  two  finished  their  orisons,  the  sound  of 
voices  broke  in  upon  them,  followed  by  a  knocking 
on  the  door.  Once  more  Sarah  Paton  stood  with- 
out, but  now  several  women  were  with  her,  and  a 
scattering  of  children  with  scared  faces  and  eyes 
ready  to  jump  out  of  their  heads.  There  was  ill 
news  to  tell.  Rosalie  was  not  to  be  found  in  the 
village  or  out  of  it.  No  one  had  seen  her  since 
last  night,  but  some  of  the  elder  children  remem- 
bered calling  out  to  her  to  "Come  on"  as  she 
loitered  sleepily  behind.  Other  smaller  children 
averred  that  as  they  were  capering  along  in  the 
rear,  "  something  white "  had  darted  out  from  be- 
hind a  rock,  and  "made  noises  like  a  mollmeit." 
They  were  quite  unable  to  describe  said  noises, 
but  declared  that  they  had  all  run  screaming  down 
the  road.  Evidently  in  the  pleasurable  excitement 
of  this  adventure  sleepy,  lagging  Rosalie  had  been 
forgotten;  and  no  one  thought  of  her  again  until 
with  the  morning  came  the  weeping  mother. 

"And  I  tell  you  the  mollmeit's  got  her, "  shrieked 
the  unhappy  woman  once  more,  while  the  others 
gazed  apprehensively  at  Sister  Joanna. 

"How  long  is  that  witch  going  to  be  left  up 
in  the  mountain?"  they  muttered.  "You  must 
write  to  the  Government,  Sister.  None  of  our 
children  are  safe " 


The  Mollmeit  of  the  Mountain    249 

Sister  Joanna  did  not  conceal  her  impatience 
with  them. 

"It  is  all  nonsense  and  silly  superstition,"  she 
said.  "The  child  will  be  found  all  right.  /'// 
find  her."  And  she  pulled  Sarah  Paton  indoors 
and  made  her  eat  the  breakfast  Mary  had  pre- 
pared, scolding,  comforting,  and  lecturing  the 
poor  woman  all  at  once.  She  herself  ate  nothing 
so  anxious  was  she  to  be  off  and  start  the  search. 

"Lock  up,  Mary,"  she  said  briskly,  "and  come 
along.  I'll  find  the  little  schelm,  see  if  I  don't, 
and  give  her  a  good  shaking  for  causing  all  this 
trouble." 

However,  a  thorough  search  in  every  nook  and 
corner  of  the  village,  and  inquiry  at  every  house, 
elicited  no  result,  and  at  the  end  of  the  morning, 
Sister  began  to  look  as  blank  as  the  muttering 
women  and  much  more  weary.  There  was  no 
question  of  school;  the  children  were  given  a 
holiday  and  told  to  join  in  the  search.  The 
Dutch  police  were  then  communicated  with,  and 
the  afternoon  was  spent  going  through  Branders- 
berg.  Sister  Joanna  was  on  her  feet  all  day,  but 
at  five  o'clock  Mary  persuaded  her  to  return 
home,  begging  her  to  eat  something  and  go 
straight  to  bed.  Mary  herself  stayed  some  time 
later  in  the  Location  wandering  about,  question- 


250  Wild  Honey 

ing,  and  trying  to  comfort  Sarah  Paton  with  words 
of  hope  that  had  no  response  in  her  own  breast. 
It  was  sundown  before  she  got  home  tired  and 
dispirited,  and  it  was  just  as  well  that  she  had 
accepted  a  cup  of  tea  in  the  village,  for  of  course 
Sister  had  been  too  tired  to  prepare  a  meal  and 
there  was  not  even  a  fire  in  the  kitchen.  Knowing 
that  Sister  would  be  anxious  to  hear  if  there  was 
any  news,  Mary  went  at  once  to  her  bedroom, 
but  there  was  no  one  there;  only  a  cloud  of  flies 
buzzing  and  crawling  over  the  sandwich  and  potato 
salad  which  stood  untouched  by  the  bedside. 
That  meant  that  Sister  had  eaten  nothing  since 
midday  the  day  before,  and  Mary  was  worried. 
However,  in  the  kitchen  she  found  a  cup  with  the 
remains  of  some  herbal  brew  Sister  had  evidently 
been  making  for  herself  and  a  moment  later  Sister 
herself  came  out  of  the  Oratory.  Fresh  hope  and 
courage,  gained  perhaps  in  prayer,  showed  in  her 
face,  for  though  still  pale,  she  looked  extraordi- 
narily excited,  and  her  blue  eyes  gleamed  with 
some  inner  fire  that  Mary's  news  could  not  quench. 

"We  shall  find  her — we  shall  find  her,  never 
fear,"  she  prophesied. 

But  Mary  went  to  bed  cold  and  miserable,  and 
trying  to  stave  off  a  bout  of  neuralgia  that  had 
its  origin  in  a  tooth  she  could  not  afford  to  have 


The  Mollmeit  of  the  Mountain    251 

stopped.  The  doleful  howling  of  Fingo  through- 
out the  night  further  depressed  her,  and  drove 
away  all  hope  of  sleep.  In  the  morning,  Sis- 
ter Joanna  decreed  that  Fingo  must  return  to 
Bloemhof. 

"I  can  quite  understand  your  fondness  for  him, 
Mary,  he's  a  dear  little  dog,  but  we  can't  be  kept 
awake  like  this  night  after  night.  You  must 
take  him  back  with  you  to-morrow.  By  the  way, 
I've  made  all  arrangements  for  Tom  Jackson  to 
call  for  you." 

"But,  Sister,  I  don't  want  to  go.  I  feel  I  can't, 
unless  Rosalie  is  found." 

"Nonsense,  my  dear,  what  good  can  you  do? 
If  she  is  to  be  found  I'll  find  her.  While  if  you 
miss  Jackson's  cart  you  miss  your  holiday,  and 
I'm  not  going  to  have  that."  There  was  resolu- 
tion in  the  old  woman's  voice  and  Mary  made  no 
further  remark,  only  ate  her  breakfast  and  hurried 
off  to  school,  for  work  had  to  go  on  whatever 
befell.  It  was  the  last  day  before  the  holidays 
and  should  have  been  a  bright  and  merry  one,  but 
gloom  hung  over  everyone.  The  children  spoke 
in  hushed  voices,  and  at  tiffin  time  instead  of 
playing  sat  whispering  in  groups.  Sister  Joanna 
came  in  for  a  few  moments  in  the  morning  and 
wished  the  children  pleasant  holidays;  then  went 


252  Wild  Honey 

back  to  where  she  had  been  since  breakfast  time 
in  the  village,  egging  on  the  search  and  agitating 
for  a  party  to  be  sent  into  the  bush  even  up  the 
mountain,  if  necessary. 

During  afternoon  school,  Mary's  neuralgia  be- 
came so  acute  that  she  determined  to  go  to  the 
cottage  for  some  painkiller,  and  having  set  her 
class  a  task,  she  put  the  eldest  pupil-teacher  in 
charged  and  slipped  away. 

A  short-cut  to  the  cottage  was  over  a  broken- 
down  place  in  the  school-yard  wall,  through  the 
cottage  garden,  and  in  by  the  kitchen  door  which 
stood  open.  Fingo  whined  as  she  passed,  but 
she  took  no  notice,  being  intent  on  the  matter  of 
relieving  her  pain.  Gaining  her  room,  she  reached 
for  the  painkiller  from  a  shelf  and  began  to  apply 
the  medicament  to  her  gums  with  the  tip  of  her 
finger.  At  the  same  moment,  she  heard  Sister 
Joanna  going  through  the  kitchen  to  the  back 
door,  and  was  on  the  point  of  getting  up  and 
making  her  presence  known  when  the  sound  of 
Sister's  voice  speaking  to  Fingo  arrested  her. 

"What  are  you  snivelling  about,  you  dirty  cur?" 

Mary  could  hardly  believe  her  ears.  Not  only 
the  coarse  words  astonished  her,  but  the  inde- 
scribably vicious  way  in  which  they  were  spoken, 
the  harsh  voice  so  utterly  unlike  the  genial  tones 


The  Mollmeit  of  the  Mountain    253 

she  knew  so  well.  The  girl  sat  on  her  bed  as 
though  she  had  been  glued  there,  and  heard  the 
rest  of  the  sentence. 

".  .  .  I've  a  good  mind  to  settle  your  hash  for 
you — only — "  the  threat  remained  unfinished. 
The  speaker  had  evidently  turned  back  into  the 
kitchen  and  was  moving  about.  Presently  she 
went  into  the  Oratory,  and  shut  the  door.  Mary 
was  meditating  a  stealthy  flight,  for  without  going 
into  her  own  reasons  she  was  suddenly  averse  to 
letting  Sister  Joanna  know  that  she  had  heard 
the  words  addressed  to  Fingo,  when  the  Oratory 
door  was  opened  and  Sister  came  back  into  the 
kitchen.  She  seemed  to  be  busy  at  the  drawer 
of  the  dresser,  and  next  came  the  sound  of  a  knife 
being  sharpened  on  the  doorstep.  Afterwards 
there  was  a  dead  silence  for  two  or  three  minutes. 
Then,  in  a  curiously  fierce  whisper  some  words: 
"No — no — I  mustn't — /  mustn't — No!  I  must  wait 
till  to-morrow." 

A  loud  rap  on  the  front  door  broke  the  sinister 
spell.  Sister  Joanna  dropping  something  on  the 
kitchen  table  left  the  kitchen,  and  Mary  staying 
only  long  enough  to  hear  a  voice  asking  Sister  to 
come  at  once  to  see  Sarah  Paton  who  was  "taken 
bad,"  crept  out  and  made  her  escape  by  the  back 
door.  As  she  passed  through  the  kitchen,  she 


254  Wild  Honey 

saw  that  the  carving  knife  with  a  fresh  edge  to  it 
lay  upon  the  table. 

When  school  was  over  at  last,  and  the  children 
gone,  there  was  still  much  to  be  done,  and  it  was 
dusk  before  Mary  approached  the  house  again, 
walking  slowly,  for  she  felt  a  strange  reluctance  to 
meet  Sister  Joanna.  But  the  house  was  empty. 
Sister  had  not  returned  from  her  sick  visit.  Mary 
made  the  fire  and  put  on  the  kettle  for  a  cup  of 
tea;  then  turned  her  attention  to  the  matter  of 
supper.  Since  Sarah  Paton  had  first  knocked  on 
the  door,  no  regular  meal  had  been  sat  down  to 
in  the  cottage;  and  after  she  had  visited  the 
larder,  the  bread-tin,  and  the  egg-jar,  Mary's  simple 
calculations  told  her  that  if  she  had  eaten  little 
during  the  two  troubled  days  Sister  Joanna  had 
eaten  absolutely  nothing  at  all.  Apparently 
another  cup  of  herbal  tea  had  been  brewed  and 
drunk,  for  the  empty  cup,  giving  out  a  faint  pecu- 
liarly bitter  odour,  was  on  the  table;  herbal  tea, 
however,  is  poor  sustenance,  and  it  behoved  Mary 
to  see  about  getting  a  good  meal  ready.  The 
neck  of  mutton  in  the  larder  was  two  days'  old 
and  no  good  to  anyone  but  Fingo,  but  fortunately 
the  butcher  had  left  some  stewing  mutton  that 
morning,  and  this  Mary  cut  up  and  put  into  a 
sauce-pan  with  onions  and  a  lump  of  butter, 


The  Mollmeit  of  the  Mountain    255 

browned  it  over  a  fierce  fire,  added  a  cupful  of 
cold  water,  and  put  it  to  simmer.  Then  she  sat 
down  to  peel  potatoes.  She  was  going  to  make  an 
Irish  stew.  As  she  sat  there,  her  mind  wrestled 
persistently  with  the  problem  of  little  Rosalie, 
and  when  she  had  finished  the  potatoes,  she  deter- 
mined she  would  go  into  the  Oratory  and  pray. 
She  had  often  prayed  for  things,  as  the  young  do, 
with  fervour  and  faith,  and  her  prayers  had  some- 
times been  answered  in  a  wonderful  way.  The 
thought  of  going  to  God,  now,  in  the  quiet  house 
appealed  to  her.  She  stepped  softly  into  the 
Oratory  and  kneeling  down,  not  in  her  usual 
place  but  right  before  the  altar,  she  prayed  with 
all  her  heart  that  Rosalie  might  be  found.  When 
she  had  finished,  the  tears  were  streaming  down 
her  cheeks,  so  ardently  and  pleadingly  like  a  child 
in  trouble  had  she  called  upon  God.  Immedi- 
ately her  heart  was  lighter,  her  courage  higher. 
It  was  as  though  she  had  passed  a  burden  from  her 
into  other  hands — very  safe  sure  Hands. 

As  she  rose,  she  felt  a  brittle,  crunching  sensation 
under  her  boot,  and  stooping  picked  out  some- 
thing from  under  the  red  and  brown  leaves  of  the 
rug,  and  a  thrill  of  amazement  ran  suddenly 
through  her.  The  chapel  was  by  now  so  dark 
that  she  could  only  dimly  see  what  it  was  she  had 


256  Wild  Honey 

found,  but  not  for  a  moment  did  she  mistake 
the  familiar  feel  of  a  thing  she  had  possessed 
all  her  life.  It  was  her  own  little  coral  neck- 
lace! The  necklace  Rosalie  was  wearing  when 
she  disappeared! 

No  sound  broke  from  the  girl's  lips,  but  a  cry 
went  up  from  her  heart  at  this  strange  answer  to 
her  prayer.  She  realised  that  if  she  had  not  gone 
to  the  altar  step  to  pray,  her  foot  would  never  have 
found  the  necklace.  Bewildered,  amazed,  fright- 
ened as  she  was,  she  suddenly  felt  strong  and 
secure, — God  was  at  work. 

As  she  opened  the  door  that  led  back  into  the 
kitchen,  lighted  only  by  the  flickering  firelight, 
she  collided  heavily  with  someone,  and  her  arm 
was  gripped  as  by  a  hand  of  iron. 

"What  were  you  doing  in  there?"  Sister  Joanna, 
breathing  heavily  as  if  she  had  been  running, 
barked  the  question  hoarsely  at  her.  Mary 
stared  a  moment,  a  sort  of  terror  creeping  over 
her  at  that  harsh  brutal  voice  heard  twice  in  the 
same  day.  Some  swift  instinct  warned  her  to 
conceal  what  she  felt. 

"I  have  been  praying,  Sister,"  she  answered 
quietly.  "Praying  that  our  little  Rosalie  may  be 
found." 

Slowly  the  grip  on  her  arm  relaxed,   and  as 


The  Mollmeit  of  the  Mountain    257 

though  nothing  untoward  had  happened,  she 
moved  across  to  the  fire  and  lifted  the  saucepan. 

"I'm  afraid  my  Irish  stew  is  burning!  I  hope 
it  won't  taste." 

She  was  talking  to  hide  something.  A  terrible 
inspiration  had  come  to  her  that  she  must  not 
share  with  Sister  Joanna  the  discovery  she  had 
just  made;  and  as  she  shook  the  saucepan  with 
one  hand,  with  the  other  she  slipped  the  necklace 
into  her  pocket.  Then  she  lighted  the  kitchen 
lamp,  and  got  out  the  teapot. 

"I'm  just  going  to  make  you  a  cup  of  tea, 
Sister,"  she  said  cheerfully.  "I  expect  you  are 
dead  beat." 

The  old  woman  had  sunk  into  a  chair  by  the 
table,  but  her  eyes  had  a  strange  glare  in  them  as 
she  watched  Mary,  who  affecting  not  to  notice, 
bustled  about  rattling  the  tea-things. 

"I  can  see  you  are  just  tired  out,  and  as  nervous 
and  worried  as  ever  you  can  be."  Mary's  arm 
was  still  tingling  with  pain,  and  that  may  have  had 
something  to  do  with  her  newly  discovered  powers 
of  acting;  but  the  sky-blue  eyes  still  glared.  At 
last,  the  tea  was  made  and  poured  out. 

"And  now  tell  me,  Sister  dear, — is  there  any 
news  yet?" 

Sister  Joanna  gave  a  sigh  as  if  some  tight  band 


17 


258  Wild  Honey 

round  her  had  suddenly  been  loosened  and  she 
had  breathing  space  once  more. 

"No,  child,"  and  it  was  almost  her  old  genial 
voice.  "The  men  have  come  back  from  the  bush. 
But  to-morrow  they  are  going  up  the  mountain. 
I've  worked  them  up  to  that." 

"I'm  glad,"  said  Mary  thoughtfully.  "For 
do  you  know,  Sister,  I  am  beginning  to  believe  as 
the  children  do,  that  there  really  is  a  mollmeit 
up  there  and  that  she  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  the 
disappearances. ' ' 

The  blue  eyes  fastened  themselves  keenly  on 
the  girl's  face,  then,  "I  have  always  believed  it 
myself,"  said  Sister  Joanna  solemnly. 


The  Irish  stew  had  only  a  faintly  burnt  flavour, 
and  looked  appetising  enough  in  its  dish;  but  the 
sight  of  it  had  a  curious  effect  on  Sister  Joanna. 
She  looked  at  it  almost  ravenously,  then  turned 
away  as  though  the  sight  sickened  her. 

"No — no,  I  couldn't  eat  any,"  she  muttered 
half  to  herself.  "I'm  not  hungry,  but  to-morrow 
— to-morrow  I  will  make  myself  a  little  curry. 
Curry  always  brings  back  my  appetite  and  bucks 
me  up  when  I  am  tired  out." 

Mary's  own  appetite  had  taken  wings  since  that 


The  Mollmeit  of  the  Mountain    259 

curious  scene  in  the  kitchen.  Nevertheless  she 
made  a  great  pretence  of  hunger.  Fortunately, 
Sister  did  not  stay  to  see  whether  the  large  helping 
of  stew  was  eaten,  but  rose  and  stumbled  towards 
her  room  which  was  next  to  the  dining-room.  It 
was  easy  to  see  that  she  was  dropping  with  fatigue. 
How  could  it  be  otherwise  after  two  days  of 
ceaseless  activity  during  which  she  had  eaten 
nothing?  Her  heavy  pallid  cheeks  hung  in  hag- 
gard rolls  about  her  jaws,  and  with  the  glare  gone 
out  of  them,  her  eyes  resembled  two  large  blue 
beads  stuck  in  a  fat  doll's  face. 

"I'll  go  to  bed,  Mary,"  she  said  heavily.  "I 
must  get  rest." 

"Yes,  do,  Sister.  No  Compline  in  the  Oratory 
to-night,  I  suppose." 

Like  a  flash,  energy  came  back  into  the  old 
woman's  glance,  and  the  haggard  muscles  of  her 
face  seemed  to  tighten;  but  Mary,  though  her 
heart  had  come  bounding  up  into  her  throat,  ate 
on  placidly. 

"No,"  said  Sister  slowly,  "I  shall  say  the 
Office  in  my  room,  and  I  advise  you,  my  dear,  to 
get  to  bed  as  soon  as  possible,  for  Jackson  will  be 
here  for  you  at  five  in  the  morning.  Have  you 
got  your  things  ready?" 

"Not  yet,"  said  Mary,  and  secretly  repeated 


260  Wild  Honey 

to  herself,  "Not  yet!"  She  was  dazed,  bewildered, 
and  terrified;  creeping,  creeping  terror  of  she 
knew  not  what  was  in  her  veins.  But  not  for 
nothing  had  she  prayed  and  felt  answering  faith 
and  courage  poured  into  her  heart!  Definitely, 
she  knew  that  after  that  prayer  and  its  answer 
she  had  no  right  to  go  yet — until  Rosalie  was 
found 

Though  she  could  not  eat,  she  sat  for  some  little 
time  at  the  table,  making  sounds  with  her  knife 
and  fork.  Her  idea  was  to  prolong  the  evening 
as  much  as  possible.  She  did  not  wish  to  go  to 
bed  until  Sister  Joanna  slept.  She  could  hear  the 
latter  undressing,  and  presently  murmuring  the 
words  of  the  Office;  later,  the  iron  bed  creaked, 
but  sleep  was  as  yet  far  from  that  bed.  Long  ago, 
Mary  had  observed  in  Sister  Joanna  an  intense, 
almost  foxlike  acuteness,  that  in  one  less  kind 
and  genial  would  have  alarmed  the  girl;  now  it 
did  alarm  her,  for  from  the  silent  bedroom,  through 
the  closed  door  she  felt  it  directed  upon  her; 
those  unfortunate  last  words  about  Compline 
had  aroused  it ! 

At  last,  Mary  rose  and  softly  cleared  the  table, 
went  out  to  the  yard  and  fed  Fingo,  made  one 
or  two  little  preparations  for  the  morning,  then 
bolted  the  back  door,  and  retired  to  her  room. 


The  Mollmeit  of  the  Mountain    261 

With  her  door  carefully  ajar,  as  she  often  left  it, 
she  then  began  to  shake  out  and  fold  up  her 
holiday  things  and  pack  them  in  a  carpet  bag. 
In  all  she  did,  she  was  careful  to  be  perfectly 
natural  and  make  no  sound  more  or  less  than  she 
would  any  ordinary  night,  for  she  was  still  aware 
of  that  acute  attention  piercing  through  the  very 
walls  about  her.  At  last,  she  washed  her  face, 
brushed  and  plaited  her  hair,  and  got  into  bed. 
But  under  her  night-dress  she  was  fully  dressed. 

There  in  the  darkness  she  lay  thinking,  think- 
ing, and  while  she  thought,  she  practised  breath- 
ing regularly  and  evenly  as  she  had  often  done 
when  a  child.  What  was  the  meaning  of  it  all? — 
the  strange  words  in  the  kitchen — the  abuse  flung 
at  the  dog — the  screeching  knife — the  grip  on 
her  arm — the  watching  eyes — the  coral  neck- 
lace in  the  Oratory?  Mary  had  no  clear  idea; 
only,  when  she  tried  to  piece  the  strange  puzzle 
together,  she  was  afraid  with  a  deadly  fear  that 
froze  the  blood  in  her  veins  and  paralysed  her 
heart. 

It  seemed  as  though  years  instead  of  hours 
passed  before  that  happened  which  she  had  known 
must  happen — very  gently  Sister  Joanna's  door 
opened,  and  feet  came  padding  softly  to  the 
kitchen;  beside  Mary's  door  they  paused;  it  was 


262  Wild  Honey 

for  this  moment  Mary  had  practised  her  regular 
breathing,  and  the  practise  stood  her  in  good  stead. 
After  some  frightful  moments,  the  longest  it 
seemed  to  Mary  she  had  ever  lived  through,  the 
stealthy  feet  crossed  the  kitchen,  and  the  Oratory 
door  was  opened.  It  was  then  that  Mary  sat 
up  in  bed  straining  her  ear-drums  until  she 
thought  they  would  crack ;  but  the  only  sound  that 
reached  her  was  a  little  soft  creaking  sound.  A 
moment  later,  she  was  lying  flat  again,  breathing 
regularly,  for  the  feet  were  returning  to  pause 
by  her  door  and  the  light  of  a  candle  flickered 
in.  At  last  the  gentle  opening  and  shutting  of 
another  door,  and  the  creak  of  the  iron  bed  under 
a  heavy  body  told  that  Sister  Joanna  had  finished 
her  midnight  prowlings.  It  was  Mary's  turn  to 
get  up. 

For  a  full  hour,  she  stood  listening  in  the  darkness 
and  in  the  end  she  heard  the  stertorous  breathing 
of  a  stout,  tired  woman  fallen  heavily  asleep.  To 
strike  a  sulphur  match  without  noise  was  no 
simple  task,  and  only  accomplished  by  making 
a  cave  of  the  bed-clothes.  This  time  it  was  Mary 
who  stole,  candle  in  hand,  to  the  Oratory.  Drops 
of  cold  sweat  stood  on  her  forehead  and  round  her 
mouth,  as  without  a  sound  she  opened  the  door 
of  that  silent  room  to  seek  there  that  which  Sister 


The  Mollmeit  of  the  Mountain    263 

Joanna  had  hidden  and  feared  for  another  to 
find.  Whatever  and  wherever  it  was,  there  was 
no  time  to  lose.  At  any  moment  the  old  woman 
might  wake!  Fearfully  the  girl  stole  to  the  altar, 
and  lifting  the  heavy  red  cloth  stared  beneath. 
Nothing! 

The  only  other  possible  place  was  the  oak  chest. 
With  faltering  hands  she  lifted  the  lid  (which 
gave  a  little  creak)  and  looked  in,  and  at  what 
she  saw  the  candle  all  but  fell  from  her  hand. 
White  and  still  upon  the  folded  altar-cloths  lay 
the  body  of  little  Rosalie.  Mary  turned  faint 
and  sick,  but  the  Power  that  had  sustained  her 
throughout  the  terrible  night  did  not  fail  her  in 
that  moment.  She  put  out  her  hand  to  touch 
the  child,  and  at  the  same  moment  a  faint  bitter 
odour  of  herbs  came  towards  her,  and  she  recog- 
nised it  as  the  same  she  had  smelled  in  the  cup  in 
the  kitchen.  There  was  a  brown  stain  on  the 
child's  lips,  and  drops  of  liquid  on  her  dress. 
Like  a  flash  Mary  realised  the  truth,  and  touching 
the  little  hands  found  them  still  warm.  The  child 
was  not  dead,  but  under  the  influence  of  a  sleeping 
herb.  Plenty  of  air  came  through  the  holes  and 
cracks  of  the  old  chest.  She  was  being  kept  asleep 
until — until  what.  The  sinister  words  muttered  in 
the  kitchen  came  back  to  memory. 


264  Wild  Honey 

"No,  no,  I  mustn't — I  mustn't — /  must  wait  till 
to-morrow!1' 

Until  to-morrow  when  Mary  would  be  gone. 
Was  that  it?  Then,  in  the  silent  house — what? 

"  To-morrow  I  will  make  a  curry!" 

Ah,  God!  What  terrible  thoughts!  They  al- 
most unnerved  Mary,  but  she  found  strength 
to  catch  up  the  child's  still  form,  and  turning  fled 
from  the  accursed  place.  The  lid  of  the  chest 
fell  with  a  loud  bang,  and  as  she  gained  the  back 
door  and  fumbled  with  the  bolt,  she  heard  Sister 
Joanna  leap  like  a  tiger  from  her  lair. 

Ah!  What  a  race  was  that  through  the  black 
night!  Over  garden  beds  to  the  gate  mercifully 
open,  and  down  the  long,  lonely  road.  Far,  far 
in  front  lay  the  native  village  and  a  single  point 
of  light  glimmering  out  from  a  sick  woman's  hut; 
and  behind  was  a  wild  beast  balked  of  its  prey, 
snarling,  and  panting.  Mary  ran  until  a  glaze 
came  over  her  eyes  and  the  blood  burst  from  her 
nostrils.  The  rush  of  the  air  woke  the  child  in 
her  arms  to  weak  but  piercing  crying,  and  only 
then  did  the  padding  shambling  feet  behind  begin 
to  falter  and  fall  back.  But  Mary  ran  staggering 
on  toward  the  light  burning  in  Sarah  Paton's  hut, 
and  only  stopped  to  fall  fainting  on  the  doorstep. 

Within  half  an  hour  the  tale  was  told,  and  men 


The  Mollmeit  of  the  Mountain    265 

with  lanterns  in  their  hands  and  black  fury  in  their 

hearts  were  out  on  the  road.     But  they  found  no 

one  and  the  school  and  cottage  were  both  empty. 

The  mollmeit  had  fled  to  the  mountain  at  last. 


Sewn  into  the  mattress  of  Sister  Joanna's  bed 
were  discovered  the  emigration  papers  of  Janet 
Fink,  and  later,  from  under  the  bed  of  herbs  in 
the  garden  men  dug  out  the  skulls  and  bones  of 
four  little  children.  Then,  raging,  they  burned  the 
Cottage  and  school  of  the  Friend  for  Little  Chil- 
dren, and  with  brands  from  the  fire  set  alight  the 
thick  bush  of  the  mountain.  For  four  days  the 
flames  roared  and  crackled,  sending  down  great 
gusts  of  heat  to  the  town  below,  and  by  night 
lighting  up  the  veld  for  miles.  The  rock  rabbits 
and  mountain  buck  came  scudding  down  to  the 
safety  of  the  bush,  but  the  men,  deployed  in  a  wide 
circle  round  the  base  of  the  berg,  never  raised  a  gun 
to  them  so  intent  were  they  on  their  grim  vigil. 

At  length  the  flames  died  down,  and  Thaba 
Inkosisan  blackened  and  bare,  with  no  leaf  or 
flower  or  branch,  nor  any  living  thing  left  upon 
it,  gloomed  silent  above  the  town. 


On  the  Way  to  Beira 


267 


On   the   Way  to   Beira 

DETTINGTON  lounged  moodily  against  the 
*"^  counter  of  Randal  &  Hallam's  winkel,  his 
eyes  sardonic,  his  mouth  decorated  with  discon- 
tent. He  was  bored  to  the  verge  of  suicide.  Two 
whole  days  had  been  wasted  in  Umtali  waiting  for 
the  convoy  of  waggons  with  all  his  kit  on  board,  to 
arrive  from  Salisbury.  Thirty  miles  off  he  had 
taken  advantage  of  a  lift  offered  him  by  a  man  in 
a  trap  and  come  on  ahead.  Now  he  was  wishing 
himself  back  at  the  waggons  instead  of  stuck  in  this 
place  where  everyone  appeared  to  have  been  dead 
and  buried  for  the  last  five  years,  in  spite  of  the 
recent  native  rebellion  when  they  had  all  had  to 
leave  their  homes  and  come  into  laager  with  not 
enough  food  and  ammunition  to  go  round.  Since 
then  the  Imperial  troops  had  passed  through, 
bent  on  punitive  measures,  and  people  had  gone 
back  to  their  homes  and  were  dully  occupied  in 
nursing  and  feeding  themselves  into  good  health 
again. 

269 


270  Wild  Honey 

The  burden  of  Bettington's  song  of  dolour  was 
that  there  was  no  one  to  talk  to,  nothing  to  drink 
but  bad  whiskey  at  a  pound  a  bottle,  not  a  man 
who  could  play  poker  worth  a  tin  tack,  no  one 
keen  on  a  shoot,  and  not  a  pretty  woman  in  sight ! 
Driven  to  sitting  among  the  piles  of  coloured 
blankets,  and  bags  of  meal,  and  Kaffir  corn,  that 
composed  the  stock-in-grade  of  Randal  &  Hallam, 
he  grew  madder  and  madder  every  minute.  Not 
so  was  he  accustomed  to  waste  his  good  time  and 
rare  gifts. 

The  shop  was  a  large  galvanised  iron  shed,  lined 
with  shelves  and  a  counter,  and  stuffed  with  every 
imaginable  thing  on  earth  that  had  a  strong 
smell  attached  to  it — leather,  limbo,  toilet  soap, 
paraffin,  cheese,  tarred  rope,  shoddy  blankets, 
and  tinned  foods  sweltering  in  their  tins. 
,  Hallam  who  had  been  a  medical  student  at 
Columbia  until  the  examiners  turned  him  down, 
was  casting  up  the  firm's  books,  perched  on  a 
packing-case  at  the  far  end  of  the  shop.  Randal 
flannel-shirted,  pipe  in  mouth,  coatless,  tieless, 
his  fair  hair  in  damp  streaks  on  his  forehead,  sat 
opposite  Bettington,  his  elbows  folded  on  the 
counter  before  him.  No  one  would  have  guessed 
him  an  old  Harrovian  (except  Bettington  who 
was  one  himself),  and  one  who  in  his  year  had 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  271 

stroked  for  Leander,  but  he  was  at  peace  with  all 
the  world,  in  spite  of  a  poisoned  foot  that  kept 
him  from  leaving  the  premises.  Nothing  about 
him  of  the  restless  energy  which  characterised  the 
blonde  man  burnt  a  bright  red  who  sat  on  the 
other  side  of  the  counter. 

Vigour  and  vitality  was  in  Bettington's  every 
line.  He  wore  his  hat  slouched  low,  but  beneath 
it  could  be  discerned  a  shrewd  grey-green  eye,  a 
nose  jutting  out  like  an  insolent  rock,  a  mouth 
with  more  than  a  hint  of  coarseness  but  none  of 
weakness  about  it. 

With  the  crop  in  his  hand,  he  smote  indiscrimi- 
nately at  his  gaitered  legs  or  the  bags  of  mealies 
and  other  merchandise  surrounding  him. 

"Nice  country!"  he  muttered,  giving  so  vicious 
a  cut  at  a  pile  of  shoddy  Kaffir  blankets,  striped 
with  gaudy  red  and  yellow,  that  a  cloud  of  dust 
ascended  from  it  and  joined  all  the  other  little 
cloudlets  whirling  and  whisking  through  the  open 
door  from  the  hot  and  dusty  street. 

"  You  needn't  kick — you're  leaving  it,"  said 
Randal,  sucking  peacefully  at  his  pipe.  "Stop 
beating  the  colour  out  of  my  blankets.  I  got  to 
make  my  living  selling  them  for  portieres  and  table 
covers." 

"No  one  in  this  hole  with  the  spunk  to  get  up  a 


272  Wild  Honey 

shoot,  and  half  a  dozen  lions  roaring  their  heads 
off  out  at  Penhalonga!  Oh,  pot!" 

"Yes,  it's  sad,"  agreed  Randal.  "But  the 
fellows  round  here  are  like  Oom  Paul,  they  haven't 
lost  any  lions.  Besides,  this  is  the  first  I've  heard 
of  half  a  dozen.  The  nigger  only  reported  one, 
and  I  daresay  he  saw  that  in  his  dreams." 

Bettington  became  inconsequently  derisive. 

"This  would  be  a  fine  place  to  raise  a  team  for 
the  Olympian  Games,  I  should  think — or  send  out 
an  expedition  against  the  Mad  Mullah — any  great 
adventure  might  have  birth  here!" 

"What  a  fellow  you  are,  Bettington!  Haven't 
you  had  enough  excitement  round  Salisbury  during 
this  unholy  rebellion?  One  would  think  you'd  be 
glad  of  a  rest!" 

"Rest  —  nothing,"  said  the  other  savagely. 
"Time  enough  to  rest  when  I'm  dead." 

"You  soon  will  be,  all  right,"  prophesied  Randal 
cheerfully.  "You  worry  too  much  behind  your 
face." 

No  similar  accusation  could  be  levelled  at 
Eustace,  commonly  known  as  Useless  Randal,  and 
Bettington  was  about  to  intimate  as  much  when 
something  caused  him  to  sit  to  attention.  A  wo- 
man had  quietly  entered  the  shop,  and  from  a  sheet 
of  paper  in  her  hand  began  to  read  out  a  list  of  her 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  273 

requirements  to  Hallam.  It  transpired  that  she 
stood  in  need  of  a  tin  kettle,  a  water  bag,  six  tins 
of  bully  beef,  six  ditto  of  sardines,  a  box  of  biscuits, 
matches,  sugar,  tea,  coffee,  and  plenty  of  con- 
densed milk.  All  were  to  be  packed  in  an  open 
packing-case  ready  for  use  on  a  journey.  Betting- 
ton  listened  to  these  instructions  because  he  liked 
the  sound  of  her  voice,  but  he  considered  it  out 
of  place  in  Randal  to  sit  with  mouth  open  and 
ears  cocked  like  a  terrier  at  point. 

She  had  pretty  dark  bronzy  hair  pushed  up 
under  a  sunburnt  Panama;  worn  but  well-shaped 
brown  leather  shoes;  ditto  gloves;  and  a  good  line 
to  her  grey  linen  coat.  When  she  turned  away 
from  Hallam  to  look  speculatively  at  the  provisions 
on  the  shelves,  Bettington  caught  sight  of  a  pale 
haughty  little  profile,  a  small  ear,  and  a  curving 
cheek.  It  was  a  long  while  indeed  since  a  profile 
had  impressed  him  so  agreeably.  A  slight  sound, 
made  no  doubt  inadvertently,  with  his  crop, 
caused  her  to  turn  her  head  quickly  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  two  men,  revealing  for  a  moment  a  face 
that  would  more  than  have  fulfilled  the  promise 
of  its  outline  but  for  the  look  of  weariness  and 
disdain  stamped  upon  it.  At  her  glance,  Randal 
rose  upon  his  poisoned  foot,  clutched  the  button- 
less  shirt  across  his  bosom,  and  bowed  with  grace. 

18 


274  Wild  Honey 

Bettington,  whose  hat  had  been  jammed  on  his 
forehead  concealing  all  but  one  arrogant  eye,  re- 
moved it  abruptly  and  placed  it  on  the  counter, 
thus  affording  to  anyone  sufficiently  interested  an 
uninterrupted  view  of  the  sanguine  complexion 
and  well-shaped  head  of  Africa's  most  brilliant 
journalist. 

It  was  not  quite  apparent  whether  or  not  the 
lady  availed  herself  of  this  priceless  opportunity 
— while  nodding  recognition  to  Randal,  but  a 
faint  colour  showed  in  her  cheek  as  she  turned 
back  to  Hallam. 

"Please  don't  forget  the  condensed  milk,"  she 
murmured.  "And  would  you  try  and  pick  out 
the  freshest  looking  tins,  Mr.  Hallam?  My  little 
child  lives  on  it,  and  it  is  very  important  to  have 
it  good.  You  know  the  last  you  had  was  dread- 
fully yellow  and  old." 

"Yes,  it  was  a  bad  lot,  Mrs.  Stannard.  I  am 
awfully  sorry,  but,  as  you  know,  we  couldn't  help 
it.  We  never  meant  to  sell  that  consignment 
when  we  found  it  was  bad.  But  Colonel  Monk 
commandeered  it  for  the  children's  use  as  there 
was  nothing  better  in  the  town." 

"  I  know.  I'm  not  complaining,"  she  said  gently. 
"  The  children  would  have  starved  without  it.  Only 
I  do  hope  you've  got  some  fresher  tins  in  now?" 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  275 

"Why,  certainly,"  Hallam  waved  his  hand  at 
the  well-filled  shelves  behind  him.  "We've  got 
plenty  of  everything  since  the  troops  came  up. 
And  I  can  vouch  for  the  milk — it's  a  first-class 
brand,  and  fresh  as  paint.  Where  are  these 
things  to  be  sent,  Mrs.  Stannard?  Out  to  your 
camp?" 

"No,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice;  "keep  them 
here  until  that  convoy  of  waggons  arrives  from 
Salisbury — they  are  expected  to-night,  I  believe — 
then  send  the  box  out  to  be  put  on  the  waggon  in 
which  I  have  engaged  accommodation  for  myself 
and  child."  Hallam  looked  up  as  if  something 
had  hit  him,  but  she  stared  at  him  so  haughtily 
that  he  dropped  his  eyes  and  applied  himself  to 
the  business  of  adding  up  the  bill.  She  paid,  and 
with  a  cold  nod  and  no  further  glance  at  the  other 
men  left  the  shop.  Bettington,  having  occasion 
to  go  to  the  door  to  examine  some  whip  thongs 
that  hung  in  a  bunch  before  the  entry,  saw  her 
walking  in  light  fleet  fashion  towards  the  Police 
Camp. 

"  She  won't  hurt  the  daisies,"  he  murmured 
pleasantly  to  himself,  as  he  sauntered  back  into 
the  shop  where  the  two  other  men  were  neck  deep 
in  what  sounded  perilously  like  village  scandal. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that?"  Hallam  was 


276  Wild  Honey 

inquiring  with  a  stunned  air.  He  had  come  over 
to  Randal's  side  of  the  shop.  "She's  had  enough! 
Going  to  take  the  baby  and  scoot!" 

"And  I  don't  blame  her  a  brass  button.  The 
only  wonder  is  she  didn't  do  it  long  ago ! "  Randal 
wore  a  judicial  manner. 

"Her  sister  kept  her  from  it,  I  guess,  and  lack 
of  funds.  Stannard  is  tight  with  the  sinews  of 
war.  Needs  them  all  to  square  his  whiskey  bills." 

Bettington  made  no  attempt  to  take  part  in 
this  interesting  dialogue,  but  listened  to  it  very 
carefully  and  pensively. 

"What  will  Miss  van  Rimmel  do?"  Randal 
wondered .  "  Go  with  her  ? ' ' 

"Not  she.  She's  always  been  dead  against  her 
sister  leaving  Stannard.  Thinks  that  while  there's 
life  there's  hope  of  reformation,  even  in  such  a 
double-dyed  sheep  as  he  is.  I  bet  if  Mrs.  Stan- 
nard does  go,  she'll  stay  behind  and  nurse  Stan 
through — and  the  Doc  says  he's  got  'em  bad 
this  time — rats  and  cats  and  purple  elephants." 

"I  don't  care  what  colour  the  menagerie  is  as 
long  as  it  keeps  Miss  van  Rimmel  here." 

"Me  neither,"  averred  Hallam  elegantly. 

They  became  aware  of  Bettington' s  sardonic 
presence,  and  dropped  the  subject  as  if  it  burnt. 

"As  I  was  saying,"  remarked  Randal  briskly, 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  277 

"we  had  better  take  fifty  pounds  of  that  dried 
buck  off  that  Boer.  It's  the  best  biltong  I've 
struck  since  I  dunno  when." 

"Right  you  are ! "  Hallam  began  to  write  in  his 
note  book.  Randal  turned  his  attention  to  the 
thoughtful  journalist. 

"What  about  your  lions,  Bet?  Still  think  of 
going  out  to  look  for  them?" 

Bet  regarded  him  pensively. 

"So  I  am  to  have  the  society  of  a  pretty  lady 
between  here  and  Beira?"  he  remarked. 

' '  You ?  Who  said  so ?  "  Randal's  voice  sounded 
slightly  aggressive.  "  I  suppose  there  are  other  peo- 
ple besides  you  on  those  waggons,  Bettington?" 

"Yes,  but  no  one  so  good-looking,"  said  Bet- 
tington, wrinkling  his  rocky  nose  and  gazing  at 
them  with  bland  eyes.  "Besides  the  only  empty 
tent  is  the  one  on  the  waggon  where  my  kit  is." 

The  other  two  studied  his  red  complexion 
discontentedly. 

"Well,  you  ought  to  be  very  nice  to  that  lady," 
quoth  Hallam  at  last. 

"I'll  try  to  be,"  promised  Bettington  earnestly. 
The  American  may  or  may  not  have  been  re- 
assured, but  Randal  stirred  uneasily. 

"She  drew  a  blank  in  the  marriage  lottery,  all 
right,"  continued  Hallam.  "But  she  has  a  nice 


278  Wild  Honey 

little  kid,  and  a  sister  that  could  take  any  man  in 
this  country  in  tow  if  she  cared  to,  but  she  don't." 

"Wise  sister!"  thought  Bettington,  "but  I'm 
glad  it's  not  she  who's  going  to  Beira."  What  he 
said  was: 

"  I  should  regard  Stannard  as  more  in  the  nature 
of  a  surprise  packet  with  a  live  bomb  inside  it 
than  a  blank.  I  used  to  know  him  years  ago, 
before  drink  and  gambling  debts  drove  him  out  of 
the  army.  How  came  a  pretty  woman  like  that 
to  tie  up  with  him?" 

"You  can  search  me.  I  guess  she  hadn't  seen 
many  other  fellows." 

"That  was  just  it,"  proffered  Randal.  "They 
belong  to  an  old  Huguenot  family,  and  these  girls 
were  brought  up  as  innocent  as  lambs  on  a  farm 
near  Worcester,  and  I  suppose  thought  every- 
thing that  had  worn  a  British  uniform  was  an 
angel,  and  every  man  that  came  from  England  a 
gentleman." 

"Well,  they  know  better  now,  no  doubt,"  re- 
marked Bettington  pleasantly,  and  looked  at  his 
watch.  "I  think  I'll  go  round  to  the  Bank  and 
see  if  I  can  decoy  Johnson  out  to  Penhalonga  to- 
night. Sure  you  won't  come,  Hallam?" 

"Can't!  Randal's  poisoned  foot  has  me  tied 
up  here." 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  279 

After  the  journalist  had  gone,  Randal  spoke  to 
his  partner  gloomily.  "Damn  bad  luck  his  going 
on  the  same  trek  with  Mrs.  Stannard.  She's  just 
rottenly  unhappy  enough  not  to  care  what  she 
does,  and  he's  just  the  fellow  women  throw  their 
bonnets  over  the  mill  for." 

"Why,  he  is  as  ugly  as  Halifax!"  exclaimed 
Hall  am. 

"That  makes  nix.  He's  got  brains  behind  that 
lovely  complexion,  and  women  like  brains." 

"  More  likely  that  insolent,  don't-care-a-tinker's- 
curse  air  of  his  that  gets  'em,"  mused  the  American. 

"He  doesn't  care  a  tinker's  curse  either.  He'd 
walk  over  anybody  to  get  his  own  way.  He  threw 
down  the  editorship  of  the  biggest  paper  at  the 
Cape  because  he  wouldn't  take  orders  from  the 
owners,  and  the  same  thing  up  at  Salisbury.  He 
hadn't  run  the  Journal  a  month  before  he  bust 
up  with  Max  the  proprietor.  Refused  to  air 
Max's  politics  because  they  weren't  his  own,  and 
went  off  and  fought  the  niggers  instead.  Now 
he's  got  another  big  job  in  Johannesburg.  Every- 
body wants  him  till  they  get  him.  There's  no 
doubt  he  can  put  it  all  over  every  other  journalist 
in  South  Africa." 

Later,  the  subject  of  this  monograph  returned 
to  the  shop  with  a  demand  for  .303  cartridges, 


280  Wild  Honey 

and  the  announcement  that  he  had  got  Johnson,  a 
horse,  and  some  boys.  Remained  only  to  get  the 
lion,  and  he  seemed  cocksure  of  that. 

His  parting  injunction  to  Randal  was  to  have 
his  box  of  provisions  put  on  McKinnon's  waggon 
if  the  convoy  passed  through  before  he  got  back, 
and  to  send  out  a  messenger  to  let  him  know  where 
the  waggons  were  so  that  he  could  go  straight  after 
them  without  returning  to  Umtali. 

As  it  happened,  he  did  not  get  back,  and  the 
waggons  passed  through  that  night  whilst  he  and 
Johnson  were  lying  behind  a  roughly  constructed 
scherm  between  the  Penhalonga  hills.  Smokeless, 
drinkless,  oppressed  by  a  deep  and  nameless  silence, 
ears  straining  and  guns  at  the  cock,  they  were  in  a 
state  of  discomfort  only  to  be  suffered  in  the  quest 
for  glory.  But  the  lion  came  at  the  pitch  black 
hour  of  two,  and  his  doom  was  dight. 

They  breakfasted  in  the  grey  dawn,  and  while 
the  boys  skinned  the  trophy,  Johnson,  who  be- 
sides being  a  bank  manager,  was  a  gossip  and  some- 
thing of  a  wit,  regaled  the  journalist  with  amusing 
biographies  of  the  Umtali  residents.  Incidentally 
the  Stannards  came  before  the  board,  and  Betting- 
ton  learned,  among  other  things,  that  the  ex-army 
man  had  been  running  a  farm  out  beyond  the 
Police  Camp,  that  the  farm  was  a  failure,  and  all 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  281 

his  wife's  money  had  gone  in  it,  likewise  the 
money  of  his  sister-in-law ;  that  the  latter  was  very 
pretty,  and  Randal  and  Hallam  only  two  of  a 
dozen  men  who  were  in  love  with  her ;  but  that  she 
would  have  none  of  them,  preferring  to  devote  all 
her  time  to  the  business  of  minding  the  Stannard 
baby  and  keeping  the  peace  in  the  Stannard  house- 
hold. In  fact,  there  was  very  little  about  this 
unpropitious  menage  that  Bettington  did  not 
learn,  and  the  more  he  heard  the  more  he  felici- 
tated himself  upon  the  fact  that  with  the  oxen 
and  veld  in  the  state  they  were  it  would  take  ten 
good  days  to  reach  Beira.  Those  ten  days  looked 
good  to  him.  Next  to  shooting,  and  righting,  and 
writing,  he  held  that  life  had  nothing  more  piquant 
to  offer  than  the  society  of  a  pretty,  disillusioned 
married  woman.  It  was  not  so  much  because 
he  was  a  scoundrel  that  he  preferred  them  married, 
as  because  he  knew  himself  fonder  of  adventure 
and  travel  and  a  careless  life  than  he  could  ever 
be  of  a  wife.  Wherefore  he  had  long  ago  decided 
that  marriage  was  not  for  him.  It  did  not  follow, 
according  to  his  code,  that  flirtation  was  not  for 
him;  only  that  he  must  eschew  the  society  of 
pretty  girls  and  devote  himself  to  the  pretty  wo- 
men who  were  safely  tied  up.  Certainly,  even  in 
this  there  was  a  risk  of  rinding  himself  laid  by  the 


282  Wild  Honey 

heels  for  life ;  but  it  was  less  of  a  risk  than  flirtation 
with  girls  entailed. 

For  the  rest,  he  held  with  Gordon  that 

No  game  was  ever  yet  worth  a  rap 

For  a  rational  man  to  play; 
Into  which  no  accident  or  mishap 

Could  possibly  find  a  way. 

It  was  on  the  evening  of  the  following  day  that 
he  came  upon  the  convoy  of  waggons  outspanned 
a  few  miles  beyond  Christmas  Pass — a  romantic 
spot  with  a  backing  of  velvet  mountains,  a  fore- 
ground of  rolling  plain,  and  a  three-quarter  moon 
like  a  crushed  pearl  hanging  over  all.  Evening 
fires  were  alight,  there  was  clank  of  pan  and  panni- 
kin, and  pleasant  savoury  odours  pervaded  the 
air.  Little  groups  of  men  lay  upon  the  ground — 
many  of  them  had  tramped  all  day  and  were 
weary.  Women  were  unpacking  provision  baskets 
and  children  pranced  happily  about  the  fires. 

In  all,  about  forty  people  were  travelling  to- 
gether down  to  the  coast  with  the  idea  of  getting 
away  for  a  time  from  a  country  which  during  the 
last  year  had  suffered  the  double  mischance  of 
war  and  cattle  pest.  Some  of  the  travellers  were 
ruined  farmers,  others  were  miners  whose  ma- 
chinery and  property  had  been  destroyed  by  the 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  283 

natives.  There  were  men  too,  who,  having  been 
wounded  in  the  fighting,  were  going  down  to 
Durban  or  the  Cape  to  recruit.  Several  families 
were  leaving  the  country  altogether,  disheartened 
by  the  disasters  they  had  suffered.  The  war  was 
over,  but  on  account  of  the  existing  danger  of 
small  parties  being  attacked  by  still  revengeful 
natives,  the  Government  had  placed  this  convoy 
of  waggons,  with  drivers  and  boys  at  the  disposal 
of  such  people  as  were  anxious  to  get  away.  The 
regular  mail  service  not  yet  having  been  resumed, 
Bettington,  in  a  great  hurry  to  reach  Johannesburg, 
had  been  thankful,  like  many  another,  to  avail 
himself  of  this  opportunity  to  get  down  country. 

He  picked  his  way  through  the  camp,  stopping 
only  to  inquire  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  his  boy 
and  McKinnon's  waggon ;  greeting  an  acquaintance 
or  two;  and  refusing  a  pressing  invitation  to  sup 
at  the  waggon  of  the  "wounded  bunch,"  one  of 
whom,  an  American  surgeon  on  crutches  with  a 
bullet  lodged  in  his  hip  bone,  was  a  very  good 
friend  of  his. 

Bettington  had  not  joined  any  mess  coming 
down  from  Salisbury,  for  he  was  a  fellow  of  moods 
and  tenses,  and  constant  companionship  bored 
him.  Times  were  when  he  liked  his  society  high, 
and  times  were  when  he  preferred  it  low,  but  always 


284  Wild  Honey 

he  chose  to  seek  and  cull  it  for  himself,  and  for 
that  which  was  thrust  upon  him  he  had  no  use. 
He  rather  estranged  people  by  giving  the  impres- 
sion that  he  believed  the  world  made  for  the 
special  benefit  of  Bettington,  and  nothing  in  it 
quite  too  good  for  Bettington;  but  this  arrogance 
of  character  was  more  assumed  than  real;  for  he 
had  discovered  that  it  rid  him  of  society  he  did 
not  need,  and  insured  him  against  intrusion  when 
he  wanted  to  work,  or  in  those  dark  hours  which 
came  to  him  as  to  the  most  self-satisfied  of  us  when 
he  was  face  to  face  with  the  fact  that  Bettington 
was  no  very  great  chalks  after  all,  and  not  within 
a  thousand  miles  of  the  fine  fellow  he  set  out  to  be 
originally. 

It  cannot  be  pretended,  however,  that  he  was 
suffering  from  any  such  mood  at  this  time.  Quite 
the  reverse.  A  man  who  has  potted  his  lion  over- 
night owns  a  little  secret  fountain  of  vainglory 
to  drink  at  that  will  keep  him  from  being  thirsty 
for  some  time. 

He  was  hungry,  however,  and  hot,  and  slightly 
footsore,  for  he  had  handed  over  his  borrowed  horse 
to  Randal's  messenger  and  thereafter  tramped 
some  miles  of  bad  road  with  the  thermometer  at 
something  over  a  hundred  and  ten. 

As  he  approached  his  waggon,  he  became  aware 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  285 

of  a  woman's  slight  graceful  figure  sitting  on  a  box 
not  far  off,  with  a  little  child  playing  at  her  knees. 
Her  profile  etched  against  the  firelight,  was  one 
which,  though  he  had  only  seen  it  once,  he  very 
well  remembered.  From  the  shadows  came  forth 
his  servant,  a  meek-eyed  Makalika  scoundrel, 
anxious  to  see  how  his  baas  would  take  the  in- 
formation that  a  lady  and  her  "bebe"  were  in 
part  possession  of  his  waggon. 

"  That's  all  right,  Bat,"  said  Bettington  trying 
to  keep  an  inflection  of  nobility  out  of  his  voice. 
"Camp  my  things  out  under  that  tree  over  there, 
and  get  me  a  towel.  Which  way  is  the  river?" 
(No  outspan  is  ever  very  far  away  from  a  river.) 

"Just  over  there,  my  baas." 

"Have  my  supper  ready  when  I  come  back. 
I  suppose  you  got  some  fresh  meat  and  bread  in 
the  town?" 

"No,  my  baas,"  was  the  modest  reply. 

' '  What  ?    The  dickens  take  you ! " 

"I  didn't  know  when  my  baas  would  be  back, 
my  baas." 

"Oh!  Hel — p!  Get  out  some  bully  beef  then, 
you — you  idiot!"  Bettington  gulped  down  worse 
things,  wondering  gloomily  how  he  was  go- 
ing to  suppress  the  expression  of  his  real  opinion 
of  Bat  during  the  rest  of  the  journey,  for  the 


286  Wild  Honey 

boy  was  a  most  particular  fool  and  the  bane  of 
his  life. 

Moreover,  on  returning  from  his  dip  with  the 
appetite  of  a  wolf  gnawing  his  vitals,  he  found  that 
though  his  blankets  had  been  perfunctorily  un- 
rolled under  the  specified  tree,  of  supper  there  was 
no  sign.  His  box  of  provisions  had  not  been  got 
off  the  waggon,  and  there  was  not  so  much  as  a  tin 
of  bully  in  sight ! 

"Bat! — you — you  bat!"  he  roared  in  a  terri- 
ble voice.  But  Bat  was  non  est.  Wise  for  once, 
he  had  melted  away  into  the  night. 

"Of  all  the  miserable — !"  Bettington  was 
obliged  to  put  his  pipe  into  his  mouth  and  bite 
on  that.  Bitterly  he  thought  of  that  invitation 
to  supper  recently  refused  and  by  now  probably 
a  dead  letter. 

"My  Inkosisan  wants  to  speak  to  the  baas,"  a 
voice  so  gentle  and  modest  that  it  might  have 
been  Bat's  own,  spoke  at  his  elbow.  It  was  in 
fact  another  of  the  afflicted  Makalika  race  who 
stood  waving  an  apologetic  hand  in  the  direction 
of  the  lady  by  the  waggon.  As  Bettington  moved 
towards  her,  she  rose  from  her  box  and  addressed 
him  in  a  charming  but  distressed  voice. 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  awfully  sorry  I  am,  but 
it  appears  that  I  have  got  your  box  of  provisions." 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  287 

"Don't  mention  it,"  said  Bettington,  mechani- 
cally polite. 

"Mine  has  evidently  been  put  on  to  some  other 
waggon  by  mistake,  and  I  was  actually  just  about 
to  eat  your  things  for  my  supper."  She  motioned 
to  where  on  another  packing-case  set  out  with 
white  enamel  plates  some  slices  of  bully  beef  had 
been  arranged  with  a  tomato  salad. 

She  looked  young  and  slight  in  the  firelight,  and 
her  hair  was  bronzier  than  ever.  Bettington  put 
on  his  most  velvety  manners. 

"And  I  hope  you  still  will.  I'm  delighted  that 
the  things  have  been  of  any  use,  though  I'm  afraid 
the  box  contains  only  the  most  ordinary  kind  of 
junk." 

"Not  at  all — it  is  full  of  good  things.  I 
had  my  lunch  and  breakfast  out  of  it  to-day — 
it  never  occurred  to  me  for  a  moment  until  I  heard 
your  boy  questioning  mine  about  your  box — 
then  I  casually  glanced  at  the  lid — and  to  my 
horror,  the  name  Bettington!" 

"I  am  sorry  my  name  should  so  unpleasantly 
inspire  you,"  he  deplored. 

"Oh,  of  course — I  didn't  mean — I 

"The  only  possible  amends  I  can  make  is  to  go 
at  once  and  look  for  your  box  while  you  finish 
your  supper." 


288  Wild  Honey 

"Oh,  but  I  couldn't — I  am  so  ashamed. 
First,  it  appears,  I  deprive  you  of  your  tent — 
and  now  of  your  food." 

"I  assure  you  I  have  never  used  the  tent  in  my 
life.  I  always  prefer  to  sleep  out  in  the  open.  As 
for  the  food,  it  makes  no  odds  at  all,  please  believe 
me." 

11  But  your  boy  ran  away  when  he  could  not  find 
your  box.  You  will  have  no  supper! — You 
must  share  mine,"  she  proffered  shyly.  He  gave 
a  surreptitious  glance  at  the  wafery  slices  of  beef 
and  tomatoes,  then  answered  with  alacrity: 

"Not  at  all,  not  at  all.  I  wasn't  going  to  have 
any  supper  anyway.  I'm — I'm  not  hungry." 

He  had  in  fact  decided  that  this  was  no  time  to 
put  on  exhibition  the  wolf  that  raged  within  him. 
And  his  manners  being  persuasive  as  well  as  pretty, 
he  eventually  convinced  the  lady  of  his  sincerity, 
and  she  sat  down  to  finish  her  supper  alone  while 
he  departed  with  the  air  of  a  man  with  a  mission — 
which  was  exactly  what  he  was. 

Straight  as  a  homing  pigeon  he  headed  for  the 
waggon  of  the  wounded  warriors.  Most  of  them 
had  already  turned  in,  but  the  American  surgeon, 
resting  near  the  remains  of  a  good  meal,  hailed  him 
blithely: 

"Hullo,  Bet!" 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  289 

"For  the  love  of  Michael  Angelo  give  me  a 
drink,  and  a  wedge  of  bread  and  bully,"  said  the 
hapless  Bet.  "And  send  your  animal  of  a  Maka- 
lika  to  search  every  waggon  until  he  finds  Mrs. 
Stannard's  box  of  provisions.  When  found,  deliver 
to  me." 

Later,  his  inner  man  replenished,  he  returned  to 
McKinnon's  waggon  with  the  air  of  a  conqueror 
and  the  recovered  box  of  provisions. 

"Well!  we've  got  it,  Mrs.  Stannard!" 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  such  surprise  that 
he  wondered  at  first  whether  she  had  never  ex- 
pected to  see  it  again.  Then  the  truth  occurred 
to  him. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  But  I  was  in  Randal  & 
Hallam's  the  day  you  came  in  to  do  your  shopping. 
You  wouldn't  of  course  have  noticed  me"  (the 
expectant  pause  he  made  here  was  almost  im- 
perceptible), "but  I  was  impertinent  enough  to 
inquire  your  name." 

"And  you  recognised  me  again?" 

"There  are  some  faces  one  never  forgets,"  he 
said  quietly,  but  effectively.  Looking  up  into  his 
eyes,  she  saw  there  something  which  she  had  seen 
in  the  eyes  of  men  before  that  night;  and  which 
always  roused  in  her  a  longing  to  rub  their  noses 
in  the  dust. 

19 


290  Wild  Honey 

"Let  us  hope  they  are  not  all  crowned  with 
hats,"  she  said  laughingly.  "Memory  might  be 
over-crowded." 

He  was  delighted  with  her.  To  be  witty  as  well 
as  pretty!  That  made  the  game  worth  the  heat 
and  toil  of  the  chase!  Thus  they  stood,  the  rose- 
lights  from  the  fires  about  them,  the  great  crushed 
pearl  above  them;  taking  each  other's  measure, 
marking  down  each  other's  weaknesses,  and  each 
secretly  registering  a  vow  to  the  other's  undoing. 
But  they  parted  with  the  pleasant  conventional 
phrases  under  which  both  good  and  bad  intentions 
are  so  subtly  concealed. 

She  breakfasted  within  sight  the  next  morning, 
but  he  did  not  go  near  her,  being  content  after 
having  exchanged  a  morning  greeting,  to  sit  under 
his  tree  and  reflect  upon  the  ten  good  days  to 
come.  She  made  a  charming  picture  in  her  dark 
short  skirt,  white  blouse,  and  the  rather  rakish 
Panama  he  remembered  so  well  as  a  feature  of 
their  first  encounter  in  Randal's  winkel.  She  had 
brightened  up  wonderfully  since  then,  he  thought. 
Perhaps  the  relief  of  leaving  all  her  domestic 
troubles  behind  her  had  something  to  do  with  it, 
but  certainly  disillusion  had  done  no  harm  to  her 
complexion  so  far,  nor  worry  spoiled  the  fine  line 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  291 

of  her  cheek  and  chin.  Her  looks  had  an  edge  to 
them  that  appealed  to  the  connoisseur  in  him.  It 
was  not  so  much  that  she  was  pretty,  as  that  she 
had  good  lines  and  that  her  clear  pallor,  the  tilt 
of  her  head,  and  her  dainty  walk,  carried  an  air 
of  race  and  insolence  with  them ;  both  things  that 
meant  something  to  a  man  like  Bettington  who 
admired  the  quality  of  insolence  in  women  almost 
more  than  anything — probably  because  he  knew 
how  unworthy  he  was  of  anything  but  their 
insolent  toleration. 

Before  the  day's  trek  began,  there  was  a  lot  of 
gathering  up  and  stowing  away  of  belongings  to 
be  done,  and  it  was  natural  that  Bettington  being 
on  the  spot  should  help  Mrs.  Stannard. 

Natural  too  that  he  should  suggest  a  tramp 
ahead  as  per  the  example  set  by  numerous  other 
couples,  all  anxious  to  avoid  the  dust  and  monotony 
of  the  trek  and  get  some  exercise  into  the  bargain. 
She  tramped  a  little  while  with  him,  and  he  liked 
her  long  swinging  walk,  and  found  her  mind  as 
buoyant  as  her  feet.  When  the  boy  who  was 
perched  on  the  brake  of  her  waggon  guarding  little 
Aimee  came  running  to  report  that  the  bebe  was 
awake  and  crying,  Bettington  could  have  kicked 
him  with  the  greatest  blessing  in  the  world.  More- 
over it  occurred  to  him  that  babies  were  odious 


292  Wild  Honey 

little  beasts,  and  that  no  nice  woman  ought  to 
saddle  herself  with  such  things. 

But  on  later  afternoons  he  blessed  the  pale  and 
fretful  Aimee,  for  without  her  as  a  chaperon  he 
could  not  have  sat  hour  after  hour  on  the  brake 
of  Mrs.  Stannard's  waggon  talking  to  her  on  every 
subject  in  the  world  but  the  one  that  filled  his 
mind  and  was  to  be  read  plainly  in  his  eyes  by 
anyone  who  took  the  trouble  to  look  deep  enough. 

Mrs.  Stannard  was  very  careful  to  look  neither 
deep  nor  long.  Bettington  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  she  was  a  very  clever  woman,  though  he 
often  wondered  where  she  had  got  her  experience. 
Marriage  with  Stannard  might  well  have  consti- 
tuted an  education,  of  a  kind.  But  where  had 
she  learned  that  delightful  way  of  assuming  all 
the  frank  innocence  of  a  young  girl? — that  lent 
such  piquancy  to  the  fact  that  she  was  really  a 
married  woman  doing  a  bolt  from  her  duties! 
And  where  achieved  the  subtle  art  of  keeping  a 
man  with  his  toe  to  the  chalk  line,  without  wear- 
ing him  out  or  allowing  him  to  show  his  impatience 
for  the  starting  bell?  Bettington  admired  her 
almost  to  stupefaction  for  these  things.  At  least 
it  was  to  stupefaction  he  assigned  the  fact  that  he 
sometimes  found  himself  sitting  and  gazing  at  her 
until  the  red  crept  in  a  little  curly  wave  from  her 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  293 

chin  to  the  bronzy  hair.  Then  indeed  it  was  time 
to  talk  about  literature,  or  make  himself  so  useful 
and  amusing  to  Aimee  that  Aimee's  mother  would 
not  have  the  heart  to  drive  him  away,  under  the 
pretext  that  she  had  a  headache  or  that  Aimee 
wanted  to  go  to  sleep. 

She  had  beautiful  eyes  of  an  uncommon  colour, 
rather  like  liquid  amber,  and  as  full  of  dots  and 
dashes  as  a  Marconi  message,  only  far  more  in- 
teresting to  read.  So  thought  Bettington  at  least, 
and  would  have  liked  to  spend  a  great  deal  of  time 
in  sorting  out  and  classifying  the  natural  shades 
and  shadows  in  them  from  those  brought  flickering 
there  by  humour  or  melancholy  or  any  other  mood 
that  seized  her.  When  he  found  out  one  day  by 
picking  up  a  bracelet  which  belonged  to  her  that 
she  was  called  Amber,  he  rejoiced  with  his  journal- 
istic sense  at  the  singular  appropriateness  of  it, 
and  that  night  found  him  lying  under  the  waggon 
scribbling  in  his  note-book  a  poem  which  began : 

O  amber  heart,  and  amber  eyes! 

That  the  subject  of  it  was  sitting  not  far  off  in  the 
gloaming  shadows,  hushing  Aimee  to  sleep  and 
looking  rather  like  a  gentle  modern  Madonna, 
lent  the  sting  of  secret  and  forbidden  pleasure  to 


294  Wild  Honey 

his  occupation.     As  Wilde  says:  "The  simplest 
thing  is  a  joy  when  it  is  secret!" 

The  one  fly  in  the  amber,  so  to  speak,  was 
Aimee.  She  was  always  on  the  spot,  and  as 
ubiquitous  as  only  a  baby  less  than  a  year  old 
can  be.  True,  Mrs.  Stannard  commanded  the 
services  of  a  nurse-boy  called  September,  but  the 
latter  was  mostly  busy  with  the  pots  and  pans, 
and  Aimee  preferred  the  society  of  her  mother 
or,  failing  that,  of  Bettington.  Yes,  much  to  his 
secret  annoyance  (and  this  secret  was  no  joy)  the 
little  animal  actually  liked  to  sprawl  over  him, 
clutching  at  his  moustache  and  poking  her  fingers 
in  his  ears  and  up  his  nose.  Sometimes  she  howled 
for  him  to  hush  her  to  sleep,  and  once  she  refused 
to  take  her  bottle  unless  he  gave  it  to  her!  An- 
other time  she  spilled  her  bottle  all  over  his  very 
spick  and  span  breeches  and  gaiters,  and  upon  that 
festival  he  could  very  willingly  have  killed  and 
eaten  her.  Another  and  horrible  occasion  when  he 
was  lying  peacefully  on  his  rug  under  the  waggon, 
with  Amber  Eyes  sitting  sewing  on  a  water  barrel 
near  by,  the  baby  crawled  over  to  him,  lolled 
upon  him  amorously  and  was  sick  amongst  his 
hair!  Amber  released  him  from  its  clutches  and 
he  escaped  to  the  river,  but  he  hated  to  look  back 
on  that  moment — it  was  not  one  of  those  in  which 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  295 

he  could  truthfully  claim  to  have  been  the  master 
of  his  fate  and  the  captain  of  his  soul ! 

He  never  could  make  out  what  on  earth  Mrs. 
Stannard  saw  in  the  little  monkey  to  justify  the 
amount  of  devotion  she  lavished  on  it.  Many  a 
time  and  oft,  when  to  his  mind  a  sound  spanking 
would  have  filled  the  bill,  he  was  astonished  to  see 
with  what  tenderness  and  patience  Amber  Eyes 
beguiled  the  peevish  elf  back  to  happiness.  But, 
somehow,  though  it  made  him  impatient  he  never 
could  help  liking  her  all  the  better  for  it.  The 
trouble  was  that  everything  she  did  made  him 
like  her  the  better,  but  she  gave  no  sign  of  being 
similarly  affected,  and  the  ten  good  days  were 
speeding  by  with  never  a  silver  arrow  nor  a  red 
rose  to  mark  their  flight !  Five  were  already  gone, 
and  nothing  achieved  but  this  one-sided  love  affair 
with  the  abominable  Aimee!  When  he  came  to 
think  of  it,  it  made  him  tired.  After  all,  he  was  a 
man  and  a  journalist,  and  something  more  he 
hoped  to  Gad,  than  food  for  babes  and  sucklings! 
What  did  Amber  Eyes  take  him  for?  Having 
asked  himself  this  question  several  times,  he  grew 
very  broody,  and  wasted  a  sixth  day  in  sulking. 

This,  he  was  delighted  to  note  brought  her  to 
her  bearings,  and  she  began  to  give  him  more  of 
her  attention.  Aimee,  whose  health  was  visibly 


296  Wild  Honey 

improving  from  day  to  day,  was  handed  over  more 
often  to  the  tender  care  of  September,  and  Mrs. 
Stannard  and  Bettington  resumed  their  tramps 
ahead  of  the  waggons,  spending  long  afternoons 
and  evenings  in  an  intimacy  that  for  two  people 
who  were  nothing  to  each  other  would  have  been 
almost  impossible  anywhere  else  in  the  world 
except  on  the  South  African  veld.  None  of  the 
other  people  with  the  waggons  made  any  comment, 
most  of  them  being  busy  grinding  little  axes  of 
their  own,  and  the  rest  too  full  up  with  the  weari- 
ness of  life  to  care  two  bones  how  that  fellow 
Bettington  (who  thought  such  a  deuce  of  a  lot 
of  himself!)  and  Mrs.  Stannard  (whom  none  of 
them  knew)  were  occupying  their  time. 
So  that  Bettington  had  quite  a  lot  of 

Time  and  place  and  woman  altogether 

in  which  to  reveal  the  other  side  of  his  soul  to 
Amber  Eyes.  In  fact,  he  felt  that  it  was  up  to 
him  to  show  her  the  kind  of  man  she  had  been 
turning  into  a  nurse-maid  and  mother's  help ;  and 
Bettington  in  the  showing-off  attitude  was  an 
entrancing  spectacle.  Fortunately,  he  sometimes 
became  so  interested  in  the  mind  of  his  listener 
that  he  forgot  to  "show  off"  and  then  she  was 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  297 

really  to  be  felicitated,  for  Bettington,  once  you  got 
past  a  thin  outer  crust  of  conceit  and  arrogance, 
was  an  uncommonly  clever  fellow.  In  fact,  in  the 
matter  of  his  work,  he  was  something  of  a  genius, 
and  when  a  man  has  the  star  of  genius  glimmering 
—however  faintly — within,  a  dozen  good  qualities 
will  be  sure  to  be  found,  like  attendant  satellites 
waiting  upon  it  and  throwing  it  into  prominence. 
Furthermore,  he  loved  his  profession  with  a  whole- 
hearted love  and  knew  the  practising  of  it  inside 
out,  and  up  and  down  the  earth,  and  backwards 
and  forwards  upon  it,  and  most  things  that  were 
to  be  known  about  literature  past,  present,  and 
future.  And  to  his  intense  satisfaction,  Amber 
Eyes  cared  also  for  these  things.  Her  mind  had 
not  been  spoiled  by  shallow  reading,  for  she  had 
been  educated  with  great  simplicity,  and  since 
coming  to  Rhodesia  had  lived  among  men  more 
familiar  with  sport  and  out-door  life  than  with  in- 
tellectual matters.  But  she  had  a  natural  taste  for 
literature  and  took  to  all  things  pertaining  to  it  as 
a  duck  to  water.  Bettington  found  her  mind  not 
only  ready  to  receive,  but  to  retain  what  he  could 
feed  to  it  and  thereafter  to  formulate  opinions 
and  convictions  on  what  she  had  heard.  He  was 
greatly  pleased  with  her,  and  as  happy  as  a  sparrow 
on  a  pump  handle,  until  she  went  away  from  him 


298  Wild  Honey 

to  eat  or  sleep  or  mind  the  baby.  Then,  he 
poignantly  remembered  that  it  was  not  thus  he 
had  planned  to  spend  the  time  between  Umtali 
and  Beira!  What  booted  it  to  him  to  turn  a 
pretty  unhappy  woman's  eyes  inwards  to  the 
cultivation  of  her  literary  instincts  instead  of  in 
his  own  direction?  He  derided  himself  for  a  duffer 
and  was  more  tormented  by  the  thought  of  imagin- 
ary silver  arrows  gone  astray  than  was  St.  Sebas- 
tian by  the  real  steel-tipped  article.  He  dreamed 
of  red  roses  left  ungathered  by  the  roadside,  and 
he  wrote  another  poem. 

It  was  at  Massi-kessi  that  she  found  it  lying 
loose  between  the  leaves  of  a  volume  of  Henley 
he  had  lent  her,  and  she  could  not  but  read  it  for 
it  wore  her  initials  at  its  head : 

You  came  and  called  me  when  the  world  was  grey, 
You  whispered  of  a  land  of  endless  May ; 
Of  flowers  abloom,  fair  skies,  birds  always  singing: 
And  I,  half-listening,  lingered  on  my  way. 

Yes,  I  half-lingered  with  a  troubled  heart, 
Your  dearest  sweetness  had  a  touch  of  smart ! 
Ever  at  fall  of  eve  I  heard  the  tolling 
Of  Life's  grim  curfew  bidding  us  to  part. 

Ah!  was  it  well  to  take  the  lonelier  way? 
To  thrust  with  prudent  hands  the  cup  away, 
To  leave  the  harvest  of  your  heart  ungarnered, 
And  all  the  precious  treasure  of  our  love  to  pay? 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  299 

When  she  had  read  it,  she  gave  a  curious,  furious 
little  laugh  and  said, 

"What  abominable  impertinence!" 

But  if  Bettington  could  have  seen  the  colour 
in  her  cheeks  he  would  have  counted  unto  himself 
the  first  red  rose. 

They  left  the  waggons  at  Massi-kessi  for  it  was 
the  railway  terminus  from  the  coast  and  they  were 
all  to  embark  next  day  on  the  Portuguese  train 
for  a  journey  through  Portuguese  territory.  In 
the  meantime,  most  of  the  travellers — for  the  sake 
of  sleeping  in  a  bed  again,  and  eating  a  dinner 
cooked  on  a  stove  and  served  on  a  table — ad- 
journed to  the  corrugated-iron  hotel  which  stood 
bleak  and  blue  in  the  midst  of  a  waste  of  sands. 
Mrs.  Stannard  and  her  baby  were  amongst  those 
who  went  over,  and,  needless  to  say,  Bettington 
followed  the  trail.  He  spent  a  good  deal  of  the 
morning  arranging  the  menu  for  an  exclusive  little 
dinner  party  composed  of  himself  and  Mrs.  Stan- 
nard. It  was  a  charming  dinner  too  and  the  menu 
a  great  success,  though  it  embraced  nothing  more 
original  than  a  fried  sole,  lamb  cutlets  with  green 
vegetables,  a  sweet  omelette,  fresh  fruit  for  dessert, 
and  a  bottle  of  wine  on  ice.  This  does  not  sound 
pretentious,  but  in  the  "good  old  times"  in  Rhode- 
sia people  never  saw  fresh  fruit  or  fresh  fish  from 


300  Wild  Honey 

one  month's  end  to  another;  goat  was  the  only 
meat  ever  available  and  ice  a  thing  remembered 
only  in  fevered  dreams  as  a  feature  of  life  in  some 
far-away  fair  land  of  a  long-ago  existence.  Where- 
fore Bettington  and  his  guest  dined  chez  Lucullus 
that  evening,  and  felt  .very  well  and  happy  after 
it  as  they  sat  with  a  dozen  other  people  on  the  cool 
dark  stoep,  or  strolled  up  and  down  the  one  long 
street  of  sand.  There  was  a  huge  mountain  of 
wool-bales  lying  ready  for  transportation  just 
beside  the  hotel,  and  Amber  Eyes,  who  for  some 
reason  was  as  gay  as  a  canary  in  a  golden  cage, 
had  a  fancy  for  climbing  this  mountain  and  sitting 
on  its  summit,  so  as  to  get  as  near  the  stars  as 
possible,  she  said.  Their  two  cigarette  tips  were 
the  only  points  of  light  in  the  vapoury  darkness. 
She  had  never  smoked  a  cigarette  in  her  life  be- 
fore, and  this  fact  refreshed  the  jaded  heart  of 
Bettington,  accustomed  to  women  who  mostly 
smoked  too  many.  They  sat  talking  there,  under 
the  stars  and  their  old  friend  the  crushed  pearl 
who  arrived  late,  until  after  midnight,  and  he 
beguiled  her  with  brilliant  tongue  and  words 
sweeter  than  honey  in  the  honeycomb.  But  her 
hand  was  never  once  within  reach  of  his.  Neither 
did  she  confide  in  him  that  her  husband  was  a 
brute !  Certainly  she  was  an  original  woman ! 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  301 

Since  none  of  the  usual  confidences  were  forth- 
coming from  her  direction  then,  Bettington  began 
to  unfold  (so  eloquently  that  he  almost  believed 
it  himself)  on  the  poignant  loneliness  and  misery 
of  such  a  lot  in  life  as  his.  But  his  word  pictures 
evoked  nothing  better  from  her  than  silvery  giggles, 
and  after  she  had  had  enough,  she  took  a  firm  hand 
on  the  reins  once  more,  and  turned  his  nose  into 
the  safe  fields  of  literature  and  adventure.  He 
had  tired  of  these  subjects  and  was  a  little  inclined 
to  fall  into  gloom  when  she  would  not  listen  to 
the  tales  of  his  woes,  but  she  was  so  gay  and  sparkly 
it  seemed  a  pity  to  dim  her  pleasure,  and  churlish 
not  to  sparkle  and  be  gay  with  her.  So  he  bottled 
up  his  emotions  for  the  time  being,  though  he  did 
not  omit  to  put  as  much  of  them  as  he  dared  into 
his  good-night  handshake.  He  possessed  very 
firm  magnetic  hands  and  had  rather  specialised 
in  the  use  of  them  in  cases  where  speech  was  not 
permitted. 

He  slept  badly  that  night.  It  seemed  to  him 
that,  in  spite  of  all  the  good  fun  he  got  out  of  his 
success  as  a  soldier  of  fortune  and  journalist,  he 
was  missing  some  vital  thing  in  life  and  he  could 
not  bear  it.  He  hated  missing  things.  It  made 
him  feel  like  the  "weariest  river"  making  a  bee- 
line  for  the  nearest  sea. 


302  Wild  Honey 

In  the  tender  sunshine  of  early  morning,  they 
took  train  for  the  coast.  The  carriages  were  two 
long  narrow  affairs  on  a  two-foot  gauge,  built  like 
tram-cars,  with  seats  running  down  the  sides  and 
the  passengers  sitting  in  two  lines  facing  each 
other.  Amber  Eyes  and  her  baby  had  a  seat  in 
a  corner  of  the  men's  compartment  because  for 
one  reason,  Aimee  could  not  bear  to  be  separated 
from  her  unwilling  love,  Bettington,  and  for  another 
because  in  the  other  compartment  a  woman  was 
too  critically  ill  to  be  able  to  bear  the  noise  of  a 
little  child. 

Hour  by  hour,  the  tender  sunshine  of  dawn  de- 
veloped into  smiting,  biting  heat  that  blistered 
the  paint  on  the  roof  above  their  heads.  Some  of 
the  men  slept  uneasily  and  some  sat  wrapt  in 
reflection.  Bettington  could  have  done  with  an 
idle  hour  himself,  but  Aimee  kept  him  busy.  She 
sprawled  and  clambered  on  him,  and  banged  his 
watch  against  his  nose.  He  would  have  liked  to 
bang  her  nose  on  the  floor,  but  the  fact  that  Amber 
Eyes  in  her  corner  grew  paler  and  paler  every 
moment,  drooping  like  a  flower  in  the  heat,  kept  a 
galvanised  smile  on  his  face.  If  he  did  not  look 
after  Aimee  she  would  torment  her  mother,  and 
that  contingency  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  But 
oh!  how  he  would  have  enjoyed  pushing  the  little 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  303 

worm  out  of  the  window, — and  probably  would 
have  done  it  if  it  could  have  been  engineered  with- 
out suspicion  attaching  to  himself.  He  saw  some 
of  the  wounded  warriors  exchanging  facetious 
smiles  as  Aimee  tore  his  hair,  whooping  like  a 
Comanchee  on  the  war-path,  and  could  only  glare 
at  them  and  curse  inwardly,  meditating  on  the 
revenge  he  would  take  out  of  their  pockets  on  the 
voyage  down  coast. 

"I'll  rook  them  of  every  red  cent  at  poker,"  he 
promised  savagely.  "I'll  make  them  cough  up 
their  last  bone!" 

Towards  afternoon  Aimee  felt  seedy,  and  despite 
all  his  efforts  to  keep  her,  climbed  over  to  Amber 
Eyes  and  lay  lamenting  in  her  arms.  Then  did 
Bettington  sitting  forward,  contort  his  face  and 
do  strange  tricks  with  his  fingers,  and  almost 
burst  himself  in  the  effort  to  amuse  her.  But 
nothing  was  any  good.  She  would  stare  for  a 
moment  with  her  large  slate-coloured  eyes,  then 
they  would  fill  up  and  brim  over  with  tears,  even 
while  they  remained  wide  open  and  observant, 
and  she  lamented  like  a  banshee.  Sometimes 
she  screwed  herself  into  a  ball  and  ejected  sharp 
barking  sounds,  and  sometimes  she  lengthened 
herself  into  a  plank  that  would  not  be  bent  up 
again;  but  always  at  spasmodic  intervals  she 


304  Wild  Honey 

howled.  The  heat  beat  down  through  the  car- 
riage roof  on  to  the  cooped-up  travellers  and  came 
in  sweltering  waves  through  the  open  windows. 
Mrs.  Stannard  grew  paler  than  ever  and  great 
purple  shadows  lay  like  pansies  under  the  amber 
eyes.  Suddenly  her  hold  on  the  baby  relaxed 
and  the  latter  rolled  on  to  the  floor.  Some 
other  man  picked  her  up  and  comforted  her 
as  best  he  might  while  Bettington  made  play 
with  the  water  bottle  and  brandy  flask.  After 
a  little  while,  Mrs.  Stannard  recovered  and 
rewarded  him  with  a  pale  smile  and  stammering 
apology. 

"I  am  ashamed.  It  is  too  bad  of  us — first 
Aimee  and  now  me.  How  you  must  hate  us!" 

It  was  at  about  that  time  that  Bettington  began 
to  realise  that  he  loved  her.  The  real  thing  had 
got  hold  of  him  at  last.  He  wished  he  could  take 
her  in  his  arms  and  kiss  away  her  troubles  and 
her  tears  forever.  He  would  have  given  his  skin 
to  sole  her  shoes  with.  He  wished  he  could  die 
for  her.  But  he  only  turned  very  pale  himself, 
and  set  his  arrogant  jaw,  and  took  Aimee  on  his 
knees  and  hushed  her,  and  didn't  give  a  damn  any 
more  what  the  other  men  thought,  and  prayed  for 
the  end  of  that  infernal  journey  as  he  had  never 
prayed  for  anything  in  his  life. 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  305 

At  length,  the  weary  day  drew  to  a  close,  and  in 
the  hot  darkness  the  train  pulled  up  at  Fontes- 
Villa,  which  is — or  was  in  those  days — a  unique 
little  corrugated-iron  Hades  situated  on  one  of  the 
best  malarial  and  mosquito  sites  in  the  world. 
The  swamp  on  which  it  stood  sizzling  resembled 
a  large  stage  carpet  made  of  coarse  artificial  grass 
and  rushes  dyed  a  bright  green  by  the  arsenate- 
of-copper  process.  Sliding  past  in  stealthy  grim 
silence,  full  of  crocodiles,  and  germs,  and  green 
slime,  was  the  Pungwe  River. 

Here  the  train  stood  brooding  for  some  hours 
as  if  considering  the  advisability  of  a  midnight 
plunge.  No  one  seemed  to  know  what  was  going 
to  happen  next,  and  no  one  cared  much.  Enough 
that  after  the  waggling,  jerking,  switch-back 
movements  that  had  prevailed  all  day  there  was 
quiescence.  A  turgid,  heavily-smelling  breeze  of 
sorts  that  meandered  unwillingly  through  the 
long  compartment  seemed  a  heaven-sent  zephyr, 
and  everything  would  have  been  beautiful  if  only 
Aimee  had  not  been  vile.  She  continued  her 
clamourings  with  renewed  energy,  and  Amber 
Eyes  said  that  she  needed  a  bottle  and  that  if 
Bettington  would  hold  the  poor  little  thing  she 
would  go  and  find  September  and  send  him  up  to 
the  hotel  (if  there  was  one)  to  get  warm  water 


306  Wild  Honey 

and  mix  a  bottle  of  condensed  milk.  Naturally 
Bettington  volunteered  to  go  and  lug  out  Septem- 
ber himself  from  the  truck  in  which  the  native 
boys  were  sleeping.  After  an  interval  then, 
September  arrived  with  the  mixed  bottle  and 
Aimee  got  her  supper.  But  before  she  was  half 
through  it,  Amber  Eyes  discovered  that  the  water 
was  stone  cold  and  would  probably  be  the  cause 
of  cramps  in  Aimee' s  anatomy  for  the  rest  of 
the  voyage.  Again  the  luckless  Bettington  went 
a-hunting  for  September,  but  this  time  the  quest 
was  unsuccessful  of  any  result  except  the  news 
that  both  September  and  his  own  boy  Bat  had 
made  up  their  mysterious  and  labyrinthian  minds 
that  they  did  not  care  to  proceed  further  on  the 
journey,  therefore  had  taken  their  blankets  and 
headed  back  for  Umtali.  Another  thing  that 
Bettington  learned  was  that  September  had  not 
gone  to  the  hotel  at  all  for  water  for  the  baby's 
bottle,  nor  even  looked  for  an  hotel,  but  had  simply 
slunk  down  to  the  river's  edge,  shipped  a  bottle 
of  the  grey-green  slime  and  mixed  it  au  naturel 
with  the  condensed  milk.  This  information  the 
journalist  kept  to  himself.  He  did  not  think  it 
would  be  of  the  slightest  use  to  Mrs.  Stannard, 
and  if  Aimee  were  poisoned — tant  pis  for 
Aimee!  But  he  doubted  there  being  any  such 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  307 

luck.  Aimee,  he  felt  convinced,  was  destined  to 
live  to  be  the  scourge  of  other  fine  men. 

His  next  job  was  to  go  up  to  the  hotel  himself 
and  get  hot  water  to  make  the  bottle.  Even  that 
was  better  than  sitting  still  in  the  little  devildom 
Aimee  was  creating  in  the  compartment  since  she 
found  herself  robbed  of  the  solacing  bottle.  Be- 
sides Bettington  was  getting  used  to  his  job,  even 
as  eels  get  used  to  skinning. 

One  thing  to  the  good  was  that  when  he  did 
discover  the  hotel  and  rouse  the  inmates  he  was 
able  to  achieve  a  whiskey  and  soda,  and  sandwich 
for  himself,  and  bear  back  similar  trophies  to  the 
fainting  and  haggard  Amber  Eyes.  As  for  Aimee, 
she  had  her  bottle  at  last,  and  Bettington  felt 
that  the  whole  noble  army  of  martyrs  were  not 
in  the  running  with  him.  "And  after  all  these 
vices  there  was  peace!" 

Just  as  silence  and  slumber  were  spreading  their 
wings  over  the  weary  caravan,  the  railway  officials 
appeared  from  nowhere  and  briskly  routed  the 
passengers  out  in  a  great  hurry  to  cross  the  river 
on  a  pont  and  embark  on  another  train  waiting 
on  the  further  side.  Ensued  a  great  struggle  and 
scramble  after  baggage.  Eventually  the  change 
was  accomplished  and  the  journey  continued  until 
arrival  at  the  Beira  station. 


308  Wild  Honey 

It  was  for  the  passengers  to  find  out  for  them- 
selves that  the  station  was  about  two  miles  away 
from  the  only  possible  hotel,  and  the  country 
between  of  the  roughest  kind  of  veld — all  scrub, 
hillocks,  bush,  and  ant-holes;  that  there  were  no 
conveyances  or  porters;  and  that  it  was  up  to 
every  man  to  shoulder  his  own  pack  and  foot  it 
for  home.  And  it  was  for  Bettington,  the  brilliant 
journalist,  fascinating  man  of  the  world,  and  gifted 
poet,  to  take  up  the  White  Man's  Burden  once 
more.  With  Aimee  in  his  arms,  a  basket  con- 
taining Aimee's  impedimenta  on  his  back,  his 
own  knapsack  slung  about  his  waist,  and  Amber 
Eyes  laden  with  smaller  articles  bringing  up  the 
rear,  he  felt  like  a  prehistoric  man  on  a  forced 
march  for  fair  pastures  and  better  hunting.  And 
in  his  heart  he  was  saying : 

"I  may  as  well  take  on  the  job  for  good!  I've 
become  a  family  man.  I've  got  used  to  fixing 
baby's  bottle  now  and  lugging  her  around.  Oh, 
pot!" 

All  round  them,  struggling  in  the  dimness  over 
ant-hill  and  ant-bear  hole,  were  other  baggage- 
laden  forms,  faithfully  padding  the  hoof.  The 
"  wounded  bunch,"  as  became  warriors  were  mak- 
ing light  of  their  woes.  From  their  ranks  came  an 
occasional  laugh  and  snatches  of  a  ribald  song  set 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  309 

to  the  opening  bars  of  the  "  Soldier's  March  "  in 
Faust,  accompanied  by  bang  and  boom  of  a  tin 
pannikin  and  some  hollow  article  (perhaps  a 
bread  box?). 

Drunk  (bang!)  last  night, 

Drunk  the  night  before  (boom!) 

Drunk  (bang!)  last  night, 

Never  get  drunk  any  more!  (Boom!) 

Bettington  felt  that  he  was  different  to  these 
men.  Nobler  in  some  sort.  Between  them  and 
him  lay  a  great  gulf  fixed.  He  had  deeper  depths 
and  could  rise  to  higher  heights.  Thank  God  he 
was  not  as  these ! 

Eventually  they  reached  the  hotel  and  Amber 
Eyes  having  engaged  a  room  disappeared  with  the 
baby  and  Bettington  was  his  own  man  once  more. 
He  in  turn  engaged  himself  a  room,  and  went  to 
bed,  to  dream  that  he  had  a  baby  of  his  own  and 
was  going  to  take  in  washing  to  earn  his  living. 

As  no  steamer  awaited  them  at  Beira,  the  pas- 
sengers from  Rhodesia  had  to  amuse  themselves 
as  best  they  might  until  a  steamer  turned  up. 
No  difficult  feat  this.  Beira  also  was  a  corrugated- 
iron  Hades,  but  at  least  the  verandah  of  the  Royal 
Hotel  was  deep  and  cool  and  palm-shaded;  and 
there  were  supplies  of  fresh  fish  and  fruit;  and  ice 


3io  Wild  Honey 

to  clink  in  the  glass;  and  though  the  sea  was 
chocolate-coloured  and  "jiggers"  hid  in  the  sands, 
it  was  the  sea,  and  it  smelled  of  home,  and  brought 
memories  of  far-away  joys  that  were  getting  nearer ! 
Anyway,  it  was  good  to  be  leaving  Rhodesia  and 
trouble  behind,  with  faces  set  to  a  new  horizon 
where  trouble  had  not  yet  materialised!  So 
thought  most  of  the  travellers.  And  perhaps  it 
was  the  philosophy  of  Amber  Eyes  too,  and  per- 
haps that  was  why  she  so  visibly  brightened  and 
bloomed.  All  was  well  with  Aimee  as  Bettington 
had  opined,  in  spite  of  Pungwe  River  germs,  and 
all  was  well  with  the  world. 

Only  Bettington  was  troubled  in  his  mind.  He 
too  had  a  philosophy  that,  so  far,  had  helped  him 
to  waggle  his  way  pretty  well  through  a  weary 
world,  but  for  the  moment  it  seemed  to  be  suffering 
from  a  weak  spine.  His  philosophy  had  always 
been  to  desire  things  and  he  would  get  them, 
especially  if  he  gave  Fate  a  leg  up  every  now  and 
again,  and  reached  out  far  enough.  True  the  leg 
up  sometimes  hit  him  a  clout  in  the  eye,  and  the 
reached-out  hand  sometimes  got  its  fingers  burned ; 
but  that  was  all  in  the  day's  shooting  and  part  of 
the  game.  The  main  point  was  that  always  in 
the  long  run  he  had  got  what  he  greatly  desired. 

And  now  it  did  not  look  as  if  things  were  going 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  311 

to  work  out  that  way !  He  found  himself  desiring 
something  that  was  already  in  the  possession  of 
someone  else — for  "better  or  worse,  for  richer  or 
poorer!"  He  who  had  made  up  his  mind  never 
to  have  a  wife  and  baby  of  his  own,  was  now  han- 
kering to  take  possession  of  the  wife  and  baby  of 
someone  else !  The  thing  was  ridiculous  of  course. 
It  was  so  silly  that  he  could  even  laugh  at  it 
himself. 

"What  a  fool  I  should  look  carting  Stannard's 
baby  round  the  world.  Blow  that  Aimee!  After 
all,  if  I'm  going  to  be  a  nurse-maid,  surely  I  can 
get  a  baby  of  my  own  to  mind!" 

Yes,  he  could  laugh  and  gibe  at  it  himself,  but 
even  in  the  act  of  doing  so  something  gripped  him 
round  the  heart  and  made  him  feel  physically  sick. 
It  was  the  thought  of  the  day  when  he  would  see 
the  Amber  Eyes  no  more!  Wherefore  he  gazed 
into  them  all  that  day  as  much  as  decency  per- 
mitted, and  a  trifle  over.  He  was  overjoyed  to 
see  that  she  could  no  longer  return  his  gaze  with 
her  frank,  disarming  glance  of  girlish  innocence. 
A  bird  sang  in  his  breast  every  time  the  colour 
sprang  into  her  cheek  under  his  hardy  eye. 

She  had  got  another  nurse-boy  for  the  baby  and 
so  had  a  little  liberty  in  which  to  roam  about  Beira, 
looking  at  the  coolie  curio-shops,  and  riding  on  the 


312  Wild  Honey 

trollies  that  ran  up  and  down  the  town.  She 
bought  herself  an  Indian  silk  shirt  of  delicate 
rainbow  tints  softly  blending  into  one  another, 
and  he  acquired  a  set  of  six  twisted  gold  bangles 
for  an  imaginary  sister,  and  a  little  one  for  Aimee. 
Then  he  wanted  to  give  Amber  Eyes  a  little  black 
ebony  walking-stick  knobbed  and  tipped  with 
ivory.  But  she  would  not  have  it. 

"Not  even  a  little  remembrance  of  our  journey 
down?"  he  pleaded. 

"It  looks  like  a  memento  mori"  she  protested. 

"It  will  be  one  if  you  use  it  to  walk  away  from 
me." 

"I  am  able  to  do  that  without  the  use  of  a 
crutch,"  she  laughed. 

"I  daresay.  What  you  are  not  able  to  do  is  to 
prevent  me  from  following,  even  if  I  have  to  come 
on  crutches." 

"Surely  you  are  too  clever  a  man  to  waste 
your  time?" 

She  turned  away  from  him  with  a  bright  cheek, 
leaving  no  time  for  a  response.  Not  that  he  had 
a  response  ready.  He  was  not  quite  sure  whether 
he  was  a  clever  man  or  not,  nor  whether  he  stood 
on  his  head  or  his  heels.  But  he  meant  to  keep 
his  balance.  And  he  did — right  up  to  nine  o'clock 
that  night. 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  313 

At  that  time  he  was  seated  beside  her  in  a  trolley 
car  which  also  contained  half  a  dozen  other  people 
bent  on  a  moonlight  drive.  The  little  bag  she 
carried  slipped  to  the  floor  and  in  stooping  to  re- 
cover it  for  her  in  the  contracted  space  his  face 
touched  her  knee  whereon  lay  her  hand.  Under 
an  uncontrollable  impulse  he  pressed  his  lips  to 
it.  She  instantly  drew  it  away,  and  they  sat  in 
silence  for  a  moment.  Then,  below  the  noise  of 
the  trolley  wheels  she  heard  his  voice  very  low 
and  vibrating: 

"Amber,  I  love  you!" 

She  stared  straight  ahead,  making  no  kind  of 
response.  He  was  left  to  wonder  whether  or  not 
she  had  heard,  and  obliged  to  assume  an  air  of 
calm  he  did  not  feel.  A  little  of  the  red  had  slipped 
out  of  his  complexion  before  they  reached  the  end 
of  the  drive,  but  also  his  jaw  had  taken  on  its 
most  dogged  look,  and  as  they  all  dismounted  and 
began  to  stroll  towards  the  hotel  he  said  with  the 
quiet  deliberation  of  the  man  who  means  to  have 
his  way : 

"Walk  down  to  the  little  bridge  with  me,  please. 
I  must  speak  to  you." 

"It  is  getting  late,"  she  demurred. 

"I  shall  not  keep  you  long." 

They  walked  in  silence,  their  feet  slipping  and 


314  Wild  Honey 

slithering  in  the  loose  sand,  until  they  reached  the 
bridge;  then  stopped  to  lean  on  the  low  parapet 
and  stare  down  at  the  water  just  below. 

"You  heard  what  I  said  in  the  car?"  he  asked. 

Perhaps  she  thought  he  was  addressing  the 
fishes  for  she  made  no  answer.  Then  very  quietly 
he  said  again: 

"I  love  you,  Amber!" 

There  was  a  great  stillness  between  them. 
Truly  as  the  wise  people  of  old  held,  to  give  a 
man  the  use  of  your  name  is  to  give  him  power 
over  you!  He  felt  that  he  had  power  over  her 
and  perhaps  that  was  why  her  hand  lying  on  the 
bridge  rail  trembled,  though  her  voice  was  quite 
level. 

"Why  do  you  call  me  by  that  name,  Mr.  Bet- 
tington?" 

"Because  I  love  you,  woman  with  the  amber 
eyes,  and  the  amber  hair,  and  the  clear  amber 
heart,"  he  said  gently  and  strongly,  and  took  her 
hands  in  his.  "And  I  think  that  you  love  me." 

"You  are  mistaken,"  she  said  coldly,  drawing 
away  her  hands. 

The  light  went  out  of  his  face  like  a  quenched 
flame.  He  turned  away  and  leaned  heavily  on 
the  bridge.  She  continued  calmly : 

"  You  merely  have  for  me  the  terrible  charm  that 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  315 

a  bad  man  has  for  a  woman  when  he  is  the  first 
bad  man  she  has  ever  known." 

"Me?"  cried  Bettington,  forgetting  dignity 
and  grammar  and  everything  else  in  genuine 
astonishment.  "I'm  not  bad!  I  like  that! 
What  about  Stannard?" 

She  seemed  flabbergasted  for  a  moment,  then : 

"How  generous  you  are!"  she  said  scornfully. 
"Besides  he  is  not  really  a  bad  man,  only  a  weak 
one." 

"One  bad  man  is  worth  forty  weak  ones," 
averred  Bettington  bitterly.  He  was  astonished 
and  indignant  at  the  line  the  conversation  had 
taken. 

"  I  do  not  deny  that  there  is  much  good  in  you," 
she  said  more  kindly.  "I  can  never  forget  how 
kind  you  have  been  on  the  journey  down.  When 
I  think  of  all  the  things  you  did  for  me  and  Aimee 
I  hardly  know  how  to  thank  you." 

"Don't  try,"  he  interrupted.  "I  did  nothing 
any  man  wouldn't  have  done  for  you." 

He  had  to  gulp  all  the  same,  thinking  of  Aim6e 
and  her  bottles  and  her  bag  of  impedimenta. 

"And  now  you  spoil  it  all,"  she  said  sorrowfully. 
"By  taking  me  for  one  of  those  hateful,  disloyal 
women  to  whom  any  man  may  make  love  the 
moment  she  is  out  of  her  husband's  sight!" 


316  Wild  Honey 

"In  all  humility  I  beg  you  to  forgive  me,"  said 
Bettington. 

There  was  no  doubt  about  it  that  for  once  in 
his  life  he  was  getting  the  worst  of  it,  but  somehow 
he  minded  that  fact  less  than  he  minded  the 
tightening  grip  round  his  heart.  In  grim  earnest, 
now,  he  heard  "the  tolling  of  Life's  curfew"  bid- 
ding them  to  part,  and  he  wondered  what  he  should 
do  with  the  rest  of  his  life.  She  had  not  quite 
finished  rubbing  his  nose  in  the  dust. 

"How  can  I  forgive  you?  I  should  not  con- 
sider myself  worthy  of  the  worst  or  weakest 
man  in  the  world  if  I  were  such  a  woman  as 
you  thought." 

But  Bettington's  nose  was  too  sore  for  any 
further  ill-treatment.  His  natural  combativeness 
began  to  reassert  itself. 

"I  didn't  think  anything,"  he  said  moodily. 
"I  just  couldn't  help  loving  you,  that's  all.  If 
you  want  me  to  abase  myself  any  more,  Amber, 
say  so,  and  I'll  do  it.  But  that  won't  prevent  me 
from  going  on  loving  you." 

She  intimated  with  great  dignity  that  she 
wished  nothing  further  of  him  but  the  courtesy 
of  his  escort  back  to  the  hotel.  They  returned  in 
silence,  but  at  the  door  of  the  stoep,  just  as  she 
was  on  the  point  of  going  in,  she  said  quietly : 


On  the  Way  to  Beira 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  my  name  is  Juliet. 
Amber  is  my  sister's  name." 

That  was  the  last  straw !  He  went  away  raging. 
How  could  he  have  wasted  the  golden  treasure  of 
his  heart  on  her?  She  was  one  of  those  cold- 
blooded brutes  of  women  who  think  they  can  do 
anything  they  like  with  men — (instead  of  letting 
men  do  anything  they  like  with  them!).  He 
thought  he  should  never  feel  better  again,  except 
after  a  bottle  of  Guinness's  mixed  with  a  pint  of 
champagne.  But  even  that  had  a  less  satisfactory 
effect  than  usual. 

No  sign  of  her  for  the  greater  part  of  next  day, 
and  discreet  inquiry  of  Rupee,  the  new  nurse- 
boy,  elicited  the  fact  that  she  was  resting  with  a 
bad  headache.  For  some  occult  reason  the  in- 
formation cheered  Bettington  wonderfully.  The 
steamer  that  was  to  take  them  all  down  to  Durban 
arrived,  and  he  and  some  of  the  warrior  men  went 
down  to  choose  their  cabins  for  the  next  day's 
departure.  Bettington  knew  the  Captain  well, 
and  accepted  an  invitation  to  lunch.  He  had  a 
sort  of  feeling  that  by  so  doing  he  was  scoring 
off  the  falsely-called  Amber.  She  should  see  that 
though  she  didn't  want  him  somebody  else  did, 
— if  it  was  only  the  Captain  of  a  Union-Castle 


318  Wild  Honey 

liner.  He  knew  the  feeling  was  childish,  but  he 
had  it  all  the  same. 

When  he  got  back  to  the  hotel,  there  she  was 
sitting  in  the  verandah.  She  went  on  writing  her 
letters  and  pretended  not  to  see  him,  so  he  got  a 
newspaper  and  pretended  to  read  it.  This  state 
of  affairs  continued  for  a  long  time,  until  an  inter- 
ruption came  in  the  shape  of  a  Cape  cart  with 
four  spanking  mules  which  pulled  up  before  the 
hotel.  A  little  hardy  blue-eyed  woman  descended, 
and  Bettington  immediately  recognised  in  her  a 
lady  whom  he  knew  very  well.  She  was  the  wife 
of  a  South  African  railway  contractor,  and  the 
Madame  Sans  G£ne  of  Salisbury,  from  whence 
she  and  her  husband  had  evidently  just  driven  in 
their  own  conveyance.  She  did  not  see  Bettington 
at  once,  but  pounced  on  Amber  Eyes  and  shook 
her  hand  vigorously. 

' '  How  do,  Miss  van  Rimmel  ?  We  came  through 
Umtali  and  I  saw  your  sister,  Mrs.  Stannard. 
She  loaded  me  with  loving  messages  for  you.  I 
also  have  a  parcel  for  the  baby.  Hope  she's 
fit?" 

"Ah!  Thank  you,"  cried  Amber  Eyes,  and 
looked  over  the  other  woman's  shoulder  to  where 
Bettington  stood  with  mouth  open  and  eyes 
starting  in  his  head.  "My  sister's  baby  is  very 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  319 

well.  I  had  such  excellent  help  with  her  on  the 
way  down." 

"Good!  Mrs.  Stannard  was  rather  anxious  as 
to  how  you  would  manage.  Stan  is  getting  along 
fine,  and  they  hope  to  join  you  and  Aimee  in 
Durban  much  sooner  than  they  expected.  Hullo, 
Bet!  What  you  doing  here?" 

Bettington  came  forward  and  made  such  genu- 
flections as  were  expected  of  him.  His  eyes  had 
resumed  their  normal  position,  and  his  mouth  was 
now  trimmed  with  a  sarcastic  smile.  But  it  is 
fair  to  say  that  the  sarcasm  was  at  his  own  expense. 
When  Mrs.  Paulton  had  gone  in  and  left  them 
alone,  he  said  gravely: 

"I  hope  it  gave  you  great  pleasure  to  make  a 
fool  of  me?" 

"To  do  one's  duty  should  always  be  pleasant," 
she  responded  with  a  ghost  of  a  smile  in  her  eye. 

"Do  you  think  you  played  quite  fair?" 

"Do  you  think  you  did?  Because  I  look  like 
my  sister,  and  borrow  her  Panama,  and  wear  her 
bangle,  are  those  any  reasons  why  you  should 
take  me  for  a  married  woman — and  a  disloyal 
one  at  that?" 

Bettington  had  to  take  his  medicine  like  a  man. 
The  best  he  could  do  was  to  mutter  with  a  pious 
eye  that  he  "thanked  God  she  was  not." 


320  Wild  Honey 

"I  thank  God  too,"  she  said  inflexibly.  But  a 
little  later  she  added  more  kindly : 

"Perhaps  we  both  rather  meanly  took  advan- 
tage of  private  information." 

"  I  don't  know  what  inexpiable  things  you  could 
have  heard  about  me?"  he  asked  reproachfully, 
secure  in  a  sense  of  self -righteousness. 

"When  I  persuaded  my  sister  to  let  me  go  at 
the  last  moment  instead  of  herself,  Mr.  Randal 
gave  me  a  brief  resume  of  your  character  and 
career.  No  doubt  he  thought  it  might  interest 
me  to  know  something  of  the  man  whose  waggon 
I  was  to  share." 

Ah !  He  almost  wished  he  had  time  to  go  back 
to  Umtali  for  a  few  days.  Yet  he  really  could 
not  feel  very  mad  with  Randal  or  anyone  else. 
Life  looked  so  beguilingly  fair  all  at  once.  His 
heart  was  light  as  a  cork,  but  he  pitched  his  voice 
to  a  becomingly  humble  key. 

"Don't  you  think  we  might  begin  again 
from  quite  a  new  basis?"  he  asked,  looking  at 
her  with  all  the  arrogance  gone  out  of  his  eyes. 
"Without  remembering  any  secret  information 
or  old  scores?" 

She  considered  a  little  while  with  downcast 
eyes,  and  a  faint  flush  in  her  cheek.  At  last: 

"All    right,"    she    said    softly.     Then    added 


On  the  Way  to  Beira  321 

reflectively:  "Aimee  will  want  a  lot  of  looking 

after  on  the  voyage." 

But  Bettington's  spirit  was  not  quite  broken. 
"  No ! "  he  said  clearly  and  firmly,  "  I  bar  Aimee." 
"She  is  rather  a  little  reptile,"  said  Aimee's 

aunt. 


Progress 


323 


Progress 


f~\LD  Nick  Retief  sat  on  his  stoep  gazing  at  the 
^-^  six  thousand  morgen  of  naked  veld  that 
constituted  his  share  of  the  world,  and  there  was 
trouble  in  his  eagle-like  gaze.  He  had  the  pecu- 
liar Boer  eye,  a  vague  light-blue  feature  sheathed 
with  puckered  skin,  capable  of  seeing  a  tremendous 
distance,  and  apparently  always  searching  for 
sheep  in  some  far-off  bush. 

His  undulating  acres  were  composed  for  the 
most  part  of  pasturage  and  poor  pasturage  at  that. 
The  rocky  soil  just  escaped  being  "sour  veld," 
but  was  grey  with  rhenoster  bush  and  dotted  by 
countless  yellow  patches  of  stink-boschie.  Sugar- 
bush  too,  that  signal  of  unfertile  land  was  more 
plentiful  than  propitious.  Only  about  one  hund- 
red morgen  were  sufficiently  rich  to  produce 
forage  for  the  beasts,  and  there  were  no  fruit  lands 
except  for  an  orchard  of  ancient  apricot  trees, 
and  a  little  orange  grove  that  nestled  in  a  shel- 
tered kloof  near  the  river. 

325 


326  Wild  Honey 

A  poor  enough  place  from  the  point  of  view  of 
the  wealthy  Paarl  or  Worcester-district  farmers 
with  their  vineyards  of  rich  black  soil  and  river 
pasturage.  But  to  Nick  Retief  it  had  no  parallel 
among  the  beauty  spots  of  the  earth. 

On  the  sun-baked,  wind-swept  farm,  bare  of 
trees  except  for  a  line  of  blue  gums  before  the 
house,  a  few  clusters  of  pomegranate,  and  an  old 
kameeldorn  down  by  the  goat  kraal — the  big  blonde 
old  Boer  had  been  bred  and  reared,  and  in  turn 
had  bred  and  reared  his  family.  After  his  brood- 
ing inarticulate  fashion,  he  loved  its  bareness  and 
bleakness,  the  wide  loneliness  of  it,  and  above  all 
the  deep  silences  that  from  day  to  day  were  un- 
broken save  by  the  purling  of  the  river,  the  voices 
of  his  "boys"  busy  at  their  tasks,  or  the  lowing 
of  homing  cattle. 

He  had  never  seen  the  sea,  this  old  Boer  of  the 
back-veld,  though  (as  the  crow  flew)  it  broke 
against  the  coast  not  more  than  eighty  miles  away. 
The  purple  mountains  had  no  call  for  him,  nor 
the  busy  town  any  lure  like  the  lure  of  this  un- 
sheltered, whitewashed  homestead  on  the  flat- 
lands.  In  him  still  brooded  something  of  the 
spirit  of  the  old  Voor-trekkers  who  trekked  for  the 
love  of  getting  away  from  their  fellow-men,  and 
pitched  their  homes  on  the  open  plain  with  water 


Progress  327 

at  their  backs  and  a  vast  emptiness  before  them; 
and  to  those  who  broke  uninvited  upon  the  silences 
or  intruded  on  the  empty  plain,  woe  betided ! 

That  was  the  trouble  with  old  Nick  Retief. 
Someone  was  threatening  to  intrude  on  his  land 
and  break  the  spell  of  its  silent  loneliness.  But  it 
was  not  an  enemy  whom  he  could  pot  at  from  be- 
hind his  laagered  waggons,  nor  a  dozen  enemies. 
It  was  the  Government  of  his  country,  bent  on  the 
business  of  laying  down  steel  rails  that  would 
enable  locomotive-engines  to  tear  screaming  and 
belching,  back  and  forth  between  the  Transvaal 
and  the  Cape.  And  ever  since  he  had  got  the 
news  of  it,  Nick  had  cursed  the  "  slegte  Government 
of  red  necks"  on  his  rising  up  and  at  his  lying 
down,  and  always  his  slow-moving  brain  pondered 
heavily  on  how  he  could  outwit  it  and  prevent  the 
abominable  outrage. 

He  did  not  approve  of  trains,  and  considered  it 
his  duty  as  a  good  Boer  to  resist  such  inventions 
of  the  Devil  to  the  last  ditch.  He  would  give 
them  a  good  fight  if  they  were  looking  for  it,  those 
slegte  skepsels!  It  was  his  land  not  theirs,  and 
right  was  on  his  side.  He  would  prove  that  to 
them,  and  win  out  in  the  fight,  even  if  it  took  every- 
one of  the  thousand  golden  sovereigns  covered 
over  with  loose  bran  and  hidden  in  a  paraffin  tin 


328  Wild  Honey 

under  his  wife's  bed.  Never  should  they  have 
his  permission  to  come  digging  and  blasting  within 
a  few  hundred  yards  of  his  stoep!  The  thought 
was  enough  to  make  his  wife,  old  Tanta  Christina, 
turn  in  her  grave  over  there  by  the  klompje  of 
pomegranates,  and  bring  the  two  tall  sons  who 
rested  beside  her  forth  to  join  in  the  fray  with  the 
verdommeder  etceteras. 

The  first  intimation  he  had  received  of  the  evil 
business  was  an  official  letter  informing  him  that 
the  Government  had  decided  that  the  railway  must 
pass  through  his  land,  and  requiring  him  to  ap- 
point a  valuer  to  meet  and  agree  with  the  official 
valuer  as  to  compensation.  To  this  old  Nick  had 
written,  or  caused  to  be  written — for  he  was  one 
of  those  old-time  Boers  whose  literary  accom- 
plishments went  no  further  than  the  ability  to  sign 
his  name  with  a  laboured  flourish — an  infuriated 
reply,  rejecting  the  Government,  its  valuers,  and 
all  that  pertained  unto  the  scheme.  A  second 
letter  from  Cape  Town  decorated  with  many  red 
seals,  contained  an  official  proposal  to  buy  the 
property  known  as  "  Jackalsfontein, "  and  an  in- 
quiry as  to  what  price  its  owner  set  upon  said 
property.  The  reply  to  this  was  brief  to  rudeness. 
The  farm  was  not  in  the  market  and  its  owner  was 
not  selling  at  any  price. 


Progress  329 

To-day  had  come  the  third  letter,  a  frigid  docu- 
ment, firm  and    arrogant  as  only   Governments 
secure  in  unlimited  power  dare  be — and  the  burden 
of  it  was  that  whether  the  owner  of  Jackalsfontein 
liked  it  or  not  the  Government  was  going  to  run 
a  railway  across  his  land.     The  survey  work  would 
proceed,  and  if  Mr.  Retief  objected  he  was  at 
liberty  to  seek  redress  in  the  courts  of  his  country. 
It  was  over  this  letter  that  the  old  man  sat  brood- 
ing in  the  morning  sunshine,  eyes  on  the  distant 
sheep,  one  gnarled,  knobbly  hand  lying  clenched 
on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  the  other  hanging  straight 
down  almost  touching  the  ground,  thumb  in  the 
bowl  of  his  pipe.     His  immense  bulk  of  brawn  and 
fat  was  clothed  in  garments  cut  and  sewn  by  the 
fingers  long  since  peacefully  at  rest  beneath  the 
pomegranates.     The  trousers  were  as  two  enor- 
mous drain  pipes  that  hung  suspended  from  above 
his  middle  in  the  straight  lines  abhorred  of  Nature ; 
circling  round  his  generous  waist  they   sprayed 
out  in   a   wide  V  over  his  stomach  where  the 
two    top    buttons    failed    to    collaborate    with 
the    buttonholes.     His    short    but    roomy    coat 
could  easily  have  accommodated  a  second  man 
of  his  size,  and  over  his  cotton  shirt  he  wore 
instead  of  waistcoat  his  flowing  beard — a  tangled 
grey-brown    affair    tousled   by    many    a    south- 


33°  Wild  Honey 

caster,  and   somewhat   recalling  certain  lines  of 
Edward  Lear's: 


"It  is  as  I  feared, 

Two  cocks  and  a  hen,  one  owl  and  a  wren, 
Have  all  made  their  home  in  my  beard!" 

On  his  feet  were  home-made  veld-schoens  of 
raw-hide,  "breyed"  to  the  softness  of  suede  with 
toes  cut  square  as  the  nose  of  a  punt. 

From  within  the  house  could  be  heard  at  inter- 
vals a  little  snatch  of  song,  like  the  chirp  of  a 
cheerful  bird  flying  from  bough  to  bough.  At  last 
in  the  doorway  appeared  Chrissie  Retief,  daughter 
and  only  remaining  child  of  the  family,  a  blithe 
good-looking  girl  between  eighteen  and  twenty 
years  of  age.  She  addressed  her  father  in  the  taal 
speaking  reproachfully : 

"Ach!  Sis,  Pa!  you  still  fretting  there  over  that 
old  Government  letter?" 

He  turned  his  vague  ruminating  eyes  on  her. 

"The  dogs  shall  never  bring  their  stink-machines 
across  my  land." 

"  What  can  you  do  then,  my  poor  Poppa?  They 
will  bring  them  here,  and  you  can't  do  anything. 
You  can't  shoot  them  with  a  gun,  or  throw  them 
with  a  stone." 


Progress  331 

"I  will  fight  them  with  the  law — if  it  takes  my 
last  pound,"  muttered  Nick. 

"What's  the  good?  They  will  win  in  the  end, 
Governments  always  do,"  said  Chrissie  who  had 
been  to  school  at  Paarl,  and  knew  a  few  things. 

"We'll  see.  I'll  go  to  Piquetberg  to-morrow 
and  talk  to  old  Frickie  de  Villiers.  He's  a  slim 
kerel,  and  ought  to  be  able  to  vernuck  them  if 
anyone  can.  What  is  the  use  of  my  tin  full  of 
money  if  I  can't  get  the  better  of  the  dogs?" 

"Ach  toch!  What's  the  good  of  fretting  your 
blood  then,  Pa?  Let  them  make  their  old  railway. 
We  shall  see  something  then,  but." 

"Allemagtage!  Are  you  a  child  of  mine?"  the 
old  man  roared.  His  vague  eyes  were  suddenly 
fierce  and  full  of  fire.  But  Chrissie  was  not  of 
the  kidney  to  be  intimidated  even  by  her  father. 
She  turned  away  with  a  trill  of  laughter,  finger  on 
lip,  to  listen  to  a  bird  that  had  just  perched  on  a 
branch  of  the  kameeldorn  and  was  calling  out  in 
three  high  insistent  notes: 

' '  Bock-bock-mackeerie !  Bock-bock-mackeerie !' ' 

It  was  the  South  African  whip-poor-will  whose 
cry  heralds  the  arrival  of  strangers. 

"  The  bock-mackeerie ! "  cried  Chrissie  ecstatic- 
ally. 

She  was  young  enough  to  be  keen  for  excitement 


332  Wild  Honey 

in  any  shape  or  form  and  would  not  have  objected 
to  making  coffee  ten  times  a  day  for  passing 
strangers.  Anything  that  broke  the  monotony  of 
life  at  Jackalsfontein  was  welcome  to  her.  She 
put  her  hand  across  her  eyes,  blue  as  forget-me- 
nots,  and  looked  into  the  distance,  hoping  for  the 
sight  of  an  approaching  Cape  cart.  The  round- 
ness of  her  upraised  arm  strained  the  seams  of  her 
cotton  sleeve,  and  a  pretty  curve  from  bust  to 
waist  and  waist  to  heel  was  visible  if  there  had 
been  any  eye  to  admire  it.  Her  print  dress  was 
badly  cut  and  the  pattern  faded  from  much  bang- 
ing on  river  stones.  But  there  is  nothing  so  diffi- 
cult to  hide  as  a  good  figure.  Chrissie  had  got 
hers  from  riding  astride,  bareback,  on  young  fillies 
and  calves,  and  swimming  in  the  river.  The 
physical-culture  mistress  at  Paarl  had  put  a 
finishing  touch  by  teaching  her  the  value  of  poise 
and  controlled  muscles.  Small  wonder  that  the 
solitude  of  Jackalsfontein  did  not  appeal  to  her 
as  much  as  to  her  father.  She  was  still  in  the 
romping,  young-animal  stage  when  she  needed 
other  young  creatures  to  romp  with.  It  was  a 
dull  life  for  the  girl. 

"I  see  something,  Pa!  There  is  something 
coming,"  she  cried  suddenly,  and  gave  a  skip  of 
excitement. 


Progress  333 

"Ach!"  The  old  man  spat  scornfully,  took 
from  his  pocket  a  stumpy  bit  of  rolled  tobacco, 
pitch-black  in  colour,  and  began  to  cut  it  into 
shreds  using  the  palm  of  his  hand  for  the  operation. 
The  stoep  table  was  dark  with  tobacco  juice  and 
roughened  by  innumerable  tiny  cuts  from  this 
very  business  of  tobacco  cutting;  but  he  always 
used  his  hand  when  he  was  pre-occupied. 

His  vague  eyes  had  long  ago,  at  three  miles' 
distance,  distinguished  that  which  Chrissie  now 
descried  crawling  up  the  sloping  land  in  clouds 
of  red  dust. 

"A  flock  of  sheep,"  she  reported,  "about  fifty. 
— Some  goats —  Eight  cows,  two  little  calves, 
three  mules " 

"A  herd  of  rubbish  belonging  to  that  pat- 
looper1  Carol  Uys,  sure  as  a  gun,"  grunted  old  man 
Retief. 

"It  looks  like  his  KafHr  Jim  driving  them," 
Chrissie  agreed.  "And  there  is  a  man  on  horse- 
back coming  up  behind." 

"The  pat-looper  himself  no  doubt.  Coming  to 
try  and  sell  his  broken-down  beasts  to  me." 

"Ach!  Pa,  you  know  you  got  the  red  heifer 
from  him,  and  that  pair  of  mules  Farnie  Roos 
offered  you  £30  for  last  week." 

1  Road-footer. 


334  Wild  Honey 

"Maar!  They  were  not  worth  £30  when  I 
took  them  from  Carol  Uys." 

"No,  and  you  did  not  give  him  £30  for  them! 
Sis,  Pa,  you  must  be  fair,  then,  but!" 

Chrissie's  eye  was  sparkling.  She  could  not 
keep  her  feet  still.  She  was  entranced  at  the 
prospect  of  seeing  Carol  Uys,  who  was  one  of  her 
suitors.  He  was  the  least  prosperous  of  them, 
and  her  father  was  always  crying  out  upon  him, 
for  a  pat-looper  because  he  had  to  augment  his 
poor  income  by  going  about  and  doing  a  little 
cattle  dealing,  but  she  liked  him  better  than  Piet 
van  der  Merwe,  or  big  Farnie  Roos.  She  was  not 
in  love  with  any  of  them,  but  she  was  very  much 
in  love  with  love  and  life,  was  Chrissie,  and  could 
not  help  a  little  bubble  of  pleasure  welling  up  from 
her  heart  and  escaping  from  her  lips  in  a  girlish 
laugh  as  she  turned  back  into  the  house.  A  jolly- 
out-of-doors,  healthy  girl,  chock-full  of  animal 
spirits  and  laughter  and  fun.  One  of  the  kind 
that  old  mother  Nature  has  her  eye  on  for  purposes 
of  her  own! 

It  was  dark  and  cool  inside  the  house,  for  Jack- 
alsfontein,  as  in  all  decent  Boer  farms,  had  every 
door  and  window  closed  tight  at  six  in  the  morning 
and  not  opened  again  until  six  in  the  evening, 
this  being  the  Boer  method  of  keeping  out  the 


Progress  335 

scorching  heat  of  summer.  And  a  very  good 
method  too. 

In  her  bedroom,  Chrissie  proceeded  to  tidy  her 
crisp  blonde  hair  which  was  always  perfectly  tidy, 
and  tie  a  broad  piece  of  blue  ribbon  round  her 
neck  in  such  fashion  that  a  fascinating  bow  was 
under  her  hair  and  the  two  ends  of  it  stuck  out 
behind  each  ear  making  her  eyes  look  so  much 
bluer  that  they  resembled  two  bits  of  radiant 
sky  studding  her  merry  face.  For  some  time  she 
meditated  over  a  large  silver  locket  with  a  flying 
crane  engraved  on  it,  and  containing  a  tin- type 
photo  of  her  mother.  She  usually  wore  this  on 
Sundays,  suspended  by  a  black  ribbon  round  her 
neck,  and  was  aware  that  it  lent  great  chic  to  her 
appearance. 

In  the  end,  she  decided  not  to  wear  it  upon  this 
occasion  for  fear  her  father  should  notice  and  ask 
her  in  front  of  Carol  why  she  had  it  on.  Not  for 
the  world  would  she  have  had  Carol  think  that 
she  titivated  herself  for  him. 

At  length,  the  sound  of  wheels  grating  in  front 
of  the  house  made  her  fly  from  her  glass  to  the 
kitchen  on  the  business  of  preparing  coffee  for 
the  newcomer.  For  no  matter  how  unwelcome  the 
caller  at  a  Boer  house  may  be,  he  is  always  offered 
the  hospitality  of  the  country — a  cup  of  coffee. 


336  Wild  Honey 

With  her  own  hands,  Chrissie  set  out  the  bright 
tin  beakers  on  the  table  of  the  Eat-kammer ,  and 
piled  high  a  plate  of  sweet  hard  rusks.  Then 
opening  the  front  door,  she  stepped  once  more 
into  the  sunshine. 

And,  after  all,  it  was  not  Carol  Uys  who  stood 
there  mopping  the  beads  from  his  brow  with  a 
white  handkerchief,  and  talking  to  old  man  Retief . 
It  was  a  stranger  with  that  red  burn  on  his  face 
and  neck  which  only  Britishers  seem  to  achieve 
in  the  South  African  climate,  and  which  long  ago 
won  for  them  the  nick-name  of  "rooi-neks." 

At  the  sight  of  him,  Chrissie  became  shy  and 
stood  poised  on  one  foot  like  a  bird  ready  to  take 
wing.  It  seemed  she  had  arrived  at  an  unpro- 
pitious  moment.  The  old  man's  eyes  were  suffused 
with  blood  and  his  fist  lay  on  the  table  as  though 
he  had  just  banged  it  down  there.  His  jaw  stuck 
out  aggressively.  The  stranger's  jaw  also  stuck 
out,  but  his  hazel  eyes  had  a  cool,  collected  stare 
in  them.  This  he  transferred  to  Chrissie  and 
removed  his  hat  with  the  usual  Dutch  greeting. 

"Dag  Mevrow." 

She  responded,  and  poised  herself  on  the  other 
foot  for  a  change.  After  a  moment,  as  old  Retief 
put  his  pipe  in  his  mouth  and  made  no  attempt  at 
an  introduction,  the  stranger  continued,  speaking 


Progress  337 

with  an  air  of  quiet  assurance  to  which  her  various 
Boer  swains  had  not  accustomed  Chrissie. 

"Miss  Retief?" 

She  nodded. 

"My  name  is  Richard  Braddon  and  I  am  the 
engineer  in  charge  of  the  railway-laying  party. 
I'm  trying  to  persuade  your  father  that  it  is  of 
no  use  kicking  against  the  Government.  He'd 
far  better  let  us  go  about  the  business  quietly." 

"And  I  tell  you  you  had  better  save  your 
breath,"  snorted  Nick,  "and  keep  off  my  land  or 
I'll  blow  you  off  from  the  barrel  of  my  old  Mauser." 

The  young  man's  red  skin  grew  a  shade  redder, 
but  he  smiled  dryly: 

"I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to  risk  that,  Mr.  Retief, 
when  the  time  comes." 

Chrissie  secretly  approved  the  I-don't-give-a- 
damn-for-you-and-your-old-Mauser  way  in  which 
he  said  it.  That  was  something  to  say  to  old  Nick 
Retief  all  the  same!  She  turned  on  her  father 
now  expostulating: 

"Foy  toch,  Poppa!  It  is  not  his  fault,  then. 
He  has  to  do  what  the  Government  tells  him, 
but!" 

"I'm  not  going  to  have  the  stink-engines  on  my 
land,"  repeated  Nick. 

"Well,"  said  Braddon  pleasantly.     "Let's leave 


338  Wild  Honey 

it  at  that.  I'm  camped  out  on  Diepner's  land 
now  beyond  the  river  but  we  may  get  orders  to 
start  the  bridge  any  time — and  then  the  rails 
on  this  side —  I  only  want  you  to  be  reason- 
able, Mr.  Retief,  and  realise  that  it  isn't  our 
fault." 

Nick  rolled  a  blood-suffused  eye  on  him. 

"You  start  on  my  land,  that's  all,"  he  said  with 
heavy  significance. 

A  minute  later,  he  let  out  a  terrific  roar  that 
shook  the  rafters  of  the  verandah  above  him  and 
was  addressed  to  the  native  who  had  recently 
arrived  with  the  sheep  and  cows. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  you  base-born 
son  of  a  baboon,  that  you  put  your  master's  scabby, 
leprous  sheep  into  my  calves'  kraal  when  I  told 
you  they  were  to  go  into  that  one  down  by  the 
shut?" 

Following  this  furious  inquiry  he  arose  and 
betook  himself  to  the  kraal,  leaving  Chrissie  and 
Braddon  together. 

"Will  you  drink  coffee?"  she  asked. 

"Thank  you,  I'd  like  some  very  much." 

She  opened  the  door  and  went  to  fetch  the 
beakers  and  rusks  out  on  the  stoep  table.  Brad- 
don immediately  bestirred  himself  to  her  assist- 
ance, proving  himself  still  further  unlike  her  several 


Progress  339 

swains,  for  among  the  more  ignorant  class  of  Boers 
it  is  the  affair  of  the  women  to  wait  upon  men  as 
upon  the  lords  of  the  earth. 

Afterwards,  the  two  sat  down  by  the  table  and 
waited  for  the  old  man.  Braddon  made  polite 
conversation.  He  felt  no  embarrassment,  but 
neither  did  he  feel  much  interest.  He  had  met 
Dutch  girls  before  and  they  had  not  "gone  to  his 
head"  or  to  his  heart  either.  Their  complexions 
were  invariably  good,  but  as  conversationalists 
they  were  draggy. 

"It  must  be  dull  for  you  living  out  here,"  he 
remarked  pleasantly. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  answered  smiling,  "there  is  plenty 
of  work  to  do  on  the  farm." 

He  liked  that  spirit  and  understood  it. 

"I  know.  When  one  is  working  time  flies, 
doesn't  it?  But  there  are  occasional  dull  hours 
in  the  evenings  I  find." 

"What  do  you  do  then?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  study  a  bit  and  read  the  newspaper  when 
I  have  one,  and  write  home  sometimes — and  think 
a  lot." 

"What  do  you  think  about?"  pursued  Chrissie. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know — work,  and  my  people  at 
home,  there's  always  something." 

He  examined  her  with  a  shade  more  interest. 


34°  Wild  Honey 

She  was  not  so  draggy  after  all,  this  Dutch  girl. 
Certainly  he  had  known  them  duller. 

"What  do  you  think  about?"  he  asked  with  a 
quizzical  smile. 

"I  think  about  the  people  who  come  to  the 
farm,"  said  Chrissie  simply. 

He  looked  up  as  if  at  a  call.  It  was  not  so  much 
her  words,  in  fact,  he  was  not  sure  what  it  was  that 
gave  him  a  mental  jump,  but  the  impression  was 
as  startling  as  if  she  had  taken  a  little  hammer 
and  hit  a  nail  into  him  hard,  only  that  no  pain 
attached  to  the  proceeding.  She  had  risen,  and 
was  busying  herself  with  the  coffee-pot.  He  be- 
came aware  for  the  first  time  of  charming  con- 
tours that  could  not  be  concealed  by  an  old  print 
frock.  Also,  that  she  moved  better  than  most 
girls  of  her  class;  that  her  hair  was  becomingly 
done;  and  that  the  ribbon  round  her  throat  lent 
an  added  note  of  colour  to  her  eyes.  A  glint  came 
into  his  own  eye,  but  Chrissie's  face  was  as  demure 
as  the  face  of  a  Greuze  milkmaid.  It  is  to  be 
feared,  however,  that  her  heart  was  less  naive 
than  her  remark.  The  fact  is,  Chrissie  was  a 
natural- born  flirt  and  knew  perfectly  well  what 
she  was  about.  She  sugared  the  coffee  with  eye- 
lashes brushing  her  cheek,  biting  her  under-lip  a 
little  as  if  that  helped  to  concentrate  her  attention 


Progress  341 

on  the  task.  Certainly  it  gave  Braddon  an  oppor- 
tunity of  observing  how  white  and  even  were 
those  same  teeth.  Her  nails  too  were  daintily 
trimmed.  Indeed  she  was  a  surprise  he  had  never 
expected  to  find  at  Jackalsfontein,  and  what  he 
could  not  understand  was  why  the  fact  was  only 
just  dawning  upon  him.  Certainly  she  was  quite 
unlike  all  the  other  girls  he  had  met  on  his  trips 
into  out-lying  districts.  He  wondered  what  had 
made  him  think  she  would  be  draggy. 

The  strap  of  a  case  he  wore  slung  round  his 
shoulders  chafed  him  and  he  unbuckled  it  and 
put  a  camera  beside  him  on  the  table.  Chrissie's 
glance  immediately  seized  on  it. 

"You  take  photographs?" 

"Yes— do  you?" 

She  shook  her  head,  her  accomplishments  did 
not  run  to  that. 

"I  only  wish  I  could." 

"I  could  soon  teach  you." 

She  laughed  and  blushed  a  little,  leaning  her 
round  face  on  one  shapely  hand.  He  thought 
what  a  jolly  picture  she  would  make  and  the 
thought  was  father  to  the  desire. 

"Will  you  let  me  take  a  photograph  of  you?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  eagerly.  "Quickly,  before 
Poppa  comes  back." 


342  Wild  Honey 

It  was  the  work  of  an  instant.  He  snapped 
twice  in  case  of  a  failure,  then  closed  the  camera 
and  put  it  away. 

"Will  you  send  me  one?" 

"Or  bring  it,  if  you  will  allow  me.  I  am  only 
a  few  miles  off." 

Chrissie  made  no  response  to  this  but  looked 
into  her  coffee  cup  as  though  it  were  a  crystal  ball 
in  which  she  could  read  the  future. 

"I  am  sorry  Mr.  Retief  should  feel  so  badly 
about  the  railway,"  said  Braddon  at  last.  "It's 
got  to  come  whether  he  likes  it  or  not." 

"That's  what  I  teU  him." 

"You  are  not  against  us  then,  Miss  Retief?" 

Old  Nick  lumbering  back  to  his  chair  per- 
haps prevented  her  from  expressing  any  opinion 
on  the  matter,  but  she  slid  Braddon  a  blue 
glance  that  seemed  to  be  an  answer  to  several 
things  besides  his  question.  The  old  man, 
who  had  not  recovered  his  temper,  continued 
to  smoke  in  gloomy  silence  like  a  smouldering 
fire  ready  to  burst  into  flame  at  the  least  puff 
of  wind.  Braddon  made  an  effort  at  concilia- 
tion by  proffering  an  inquiry  or  two  as  to 
farming  affairs  generally,  but  met  with  no 
marked  success. 

"How  goes  it  with  the  sheep,  Oom?"     Oom 


Progress  343 

Nick  glowered  at  him  for  some  time  before  grunt- 
ing a  response. 

"The  sheep  are  a  beetje  thin." 

Braddon  essayed  another  throw. 

"How  goes  it  with  the  land?" 

After  a  long  silence. 

"The  land  is  a  beetje  dry." 

This  was  melancholy.  Braddon,  about  to  con- 
clude with  the  usual  polite  query:  "How  goes  it 
with  the  wife?  "  caught  a  swift  glance  from  Chrissie 
and  was  reminded  that  he  had  heard  of  the  old 
man  being  a  widower  of  long  standing. 

"How  goes  it  with  the  fruit?"  he  ventured 
instead. 

"The  fruit  is  a  beetje  behind- time." 

Nick  looked  gloomily  towards  his  apricot 
orchard.  Chrissie  having  piloted  Braddon  past  a 
bad  place  was  now  smiling  down  her  retrousse 
nose.  He  was  considering  the  matter  of  moving 
on  when  someone  else  entered  upon  the  scene. 
Old  Retief  had  seen  the  Cape  cart  coming  long 
since  but,  according  to  his  wont,  said  nothing. 
The  others  were  too  much  occupied  with  their 
own  thoughts  to  notice  anything,  until  the  dust 
of  Carol  Uys's  trap  blew  over  them  from  the  loose 
ground  in  front  of  the  stoep. 

"Dag,  Oom!" 


344  Wild  Honey 

"Dag,  Carol!" 

The  thin  long-legged  young  Boer  descended 
from  his  cart,  fastened  the  pole  of  it  to  a  staple 
driven  into  one  of  the  blue-gum  trees  and  came 
up  the  stoep  steps.  He  was  a  pleasant-faced 
fellow  about  six  feet  three  inches  in  height  but  of 
rather  slight  build.  Chrissie  had  always  liked 
his  gentle  eyes  and  gentle  ways  inherited  from 
some  far-off  Huguenot  ancestor,  but  to-day  she 
noticed  for  the  first  time  that  he  walked  flat- 
footed  and  that  the  toe  of  one  of  his  shoes  pointed 
east  and  the  other  west.  For  the  first  time  too 
she  was  not  impatient  at  her  father's  off-hand, 
rather  scornful  manner  of  greeting  him.  Old 
Retief  despised  the  Uys  clan,  lock,  stock,  and 
barrel,  because  they  were  bad  farmers.  In  fact 
though  they  lived  on  farms  they  were  no  farmers 
at  all.  Everyone  knew  it.  An  Uys  farm  was 
always  farthest  away  from  the  markets  and  always 
pushed  away  in  the  corner  of  some  mountainous 
kloof  where  the  grazing  was  sour  for  the  beasts 
and  the  land  would  grow  nothing.  Naturally 
there  was  nothing  for  the  sons  of  such  a  farmer 
to  do  to  make  ends  meet  but  take  to  transport 
riding  or  cattle  dealing.  And  the  truth  was  that 
the  Uys  taste  lay  that  way — that  was  what  old 
Retief  had  against  them.  They  were  horsey  men, 


Progress  345 

fonder  of  the  road  than  the  roof-tree,  men  who 
would  sooner  ride  a  hundred  miles  to  deal  for  a 
pair  of  goats  than  do  one  day's  work  at  the  tail 
of  a  plough.  Retief  despised  such  shiftless  wan- 
derers and  wanted  nothing  of  the  sort  for  a  son-in- 
law.  Wherefore  Carol  Uys  was  none  too  welcome 
at  Jackalsfontein.  However,  the  handshaking 
that  ensued  was  hearty  enough  and  Chrissie,  with 
heightened  colour,  poured  coffee  for  the  newcomer, 
and  fresh  cups  all  round. 

"Well?  What  broken-down  old  crocks  have 
you  got  with  you  to-day,  Carol?"  asked  the 
old  man  grimly. 

Uys  waved  his  hand  at  the  two  handsome 
bays  with  black  manes  and  tails,  harnessed  to 
the  cart. 

"Look  then!  They  speak  for  themselves  Oom. 
As  smart  a  pair  of  Cape  horses  as  you  will  see  from 
here  to  Johannesburg.  The  very  thing  to  drive 
Miss  Chrissie  to  kerk  with  on  Sunday." 

Needless  to  say  Retief  had  passed  a  shrewd  eye 
over  them  long  since  and  come  to  his  own  conclu- 
sions. His  business  now  was  to  conceal  those 
conclusions,  which  happened  to  be  favourable, 
behind  a  contemptuous  smile  and  such  sarcasm 
as  he  could  muster.  No  very  great  amount ! 

"I'm  not  on  the  look-out  for  grandparents  for 


346  Wild  Honey 

those  I  have  to  take  Chrissie  to  church  with  al- 
ready!" he  remarked. 

"Ah!  Oom  Nick  must  not  make  jokes  about 
those  bays, ' '  expostulated  Carol  seriously .  ' '  They 
are  Clan-William  horses — three-year  olds.  Why, 
they  haven't  whistled  yet  [cut  their  baby-teeth]. 
Oompie  can  look  in  their  mouths  and  see. " 

"  Mastag!  It  is  hard  enough  to  see  them  at  all, 
they  are  so  maar  [thin] !" 

Carol  aggrieved,  turned  to  Chrissie. 

"No  one  could  call  them  maar.  It  is  a  dry 
season  and  I  haven't  been  able  to  get  them  much 
forage  by  the  way,  but  no  one  can  call  them 
maar" 

"How  much  do  you  want  for  them?"  asked 
Braddon. 

"Sixty  pounds  apiece,  not  a  sixpence  less," 
declared  Carol.  "Don't  you  think  I'm  right, 
Miss  Chrissie?" 

Chrissie,  with  her  father's  eye  on  her,  knew 
better  than  to  respond. 

"Hundred  and  twenty  the  pair!  A  stiff  price," 
remarked  the  engineer. 

"Not  too  stiff.  Oom  Nick  knows  the  value  of 
a  good  horse  and  is  able  to  pay  it,"  said  Carol 
firmly.  He  may  have  been  no  farmer  but  he  knew 
his  business  as  a  horse-seller. 


Progress  347 

"Their  feet  are  too  soft  for  this  veld,"  grumbled 
old  Retief. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,  Oom.  Clan- William  horses 
are  hard-veld  horses — iron  feet  and  mouths  of 
velvet.  You  know  it  good  enough." 

"Well,  and  what's  the  matter  with  my  own 
horses  that  I  drive  to  kerk  every  Sunday?"  asked 
Nick  Retief  aggressively. 

"  Oom,  they  are  not  bad  horses.  I'm  not  saying 
they  are  bad  horses,  but  they  are  five  years  old 
and  don't  match — you  know  they  don't  match. 
One  has  got  a  bless  [white  blaze  down  forehead] 
and  the  other  has  a  white  foot." 

This  hit  the  old  man  hard.  That  bless  and 
white  foot  had  been  his  bane  for  many  a  day. 

"Oompie  mustn't  drive  to  church  like  that  any 
longer,"  said  Carol  decisively.  "It  is  unlucky." 

"Ah!  unlucky?  I  am  unlucky  enough,"  glow- 
ered Oom  Nick  and  reflected  awhile  in  his  beard 
while  Carol  drank  more  coffee  and  looked  at 
Chrissie  with  his  brown  eyes  which  became  very 
gentle  and  shy  the  moment  he  was  not  discussing 
horses.  Chrissie  inquired  for  his  mother  and 
sisters  and  brothers,  naming  each  separately. 
Braddon  tattooed  the  table,  bored  and  vaguely 
irritated.  At  last,  the  old  man  got  up  and  went 
down  to  the  horses  and  began  examining  them 


348  Wild  Honey 

minutely  from  mouth  to  hoof,  jeering  all  the  time 
and  expostulating  with  Uys  who  had  followed  him. 

The  engineer  and  Chrissie  left  alone  sat  a  long 
time  in  silence  apparently  listening  to  the  haggling 
and  jeering  below  them,  but  in  reality  listening 
to  queer  little  drumlike  sounds  going  on  within 
themselves. 

"  May  I  bring  you  the  photo  when  it  is  finished?" 
Braddon  said  at  last  in  a  low  voice. 

She  laughed  her  little  bubbling  laugh. 

"You  see  how  it  is  with  Poppa — he  does  not 
like  the  railway." 

He  looked  at  her  steadily. 

"You  mean  I  will  not  be  welcome  here?" 

"Poppa  will  not  welcome  you,"  said  Chrissie  with 
the  Greuze  look.  " Have  another  cup  of  coffee?" 

Her  father  and  Uys  were  returning  to  the  stoep. 
Evidently  some  arrangement  had  been  come  to, 
but  they  were  still  haggling. 

"Come  on,  Oom,  you  don't  want  that  red  ox, 
now,  it  will  pair  with  one  I  have  and  that  will  let 
you  off  another  five  pounds.  Then  I  will  take 
your  old  bays  for  £55  and  you  will  have  only  to 
pay  me  £40  cash." 

"Forty  cash!"  complained  Nick.  "It  is  too 
much." 

"No,  no,  Uncle.     It  is  not  too  much — you  know 


Progress  349 

that  good  enough.  I  couldn't  sell  for  less,  even 
to  Miss  Chrissie's  father." 

He  looked  with  his  shy  brown  eyes  at  the  girl 
and  she  smiled  back.  Braddon  got  up  quickly. 

"Well,  I  must  go.     Good-bye,  Oom." 

The  old  man  scowled  at  him  but  shook  hands. 

"Good-day,  kerel." 

"Good-day,  Miss  Retief." 

"Good-day,  Mr.  Braddon." 

Perhaps  some  subtle  message  passed  from  her 
hand  to  his  for  his  eyes  cleared.  He  went  down 
from  the  stoep,  untied  his  horse,  and  mounted.  It 
was  a  good  horse  and  he  sat  on  it  as  only  a  born 
rider  can  sit.  If  Chrissie's  good  figure  could  not 
be  hidden  neither  could  Braddon's  horsemanship, 
and  that  is  an  accomplishment  which  Boer  girls, 
in  common  with  most  other  girls,  admire.  He  was 
well  aware  of  Chrissie's  glance  fixed  upon  him  as 
he  rode  away,  swaying  easily  and  gracefully  in 
his  saddle.  He  was  not  quite  sure  why  the  fact 
was  so  pleasing  to  him,  but  he  whistled  a  gay  little 
air,  and  the  world  looked  a  good  place  to  him,  and 
life  much  more  attractive  than  it  had  looked  an 
hour  ago. 

Six  months  later,  Nick  Retief  sat  again  on  his 
stoep  gazing  with  sombre  eyes  before  him.  At  a 


350  Wild  Honey 

casual  glance  all  seemed  unchanged,  but  a  trained 
observer  would  have  detected  two  profound  differ- 
ences: the  landscape  was  no  longer  naked,  and  the 
old  Boer  had  grown  markedly  older. 

His  beard  and  hair  showed  great  patches  of  white 
amidst  their  shaggy  sandiness,  the  old  eyes  were 
bloodshot  and  full  of  strain,  the  folds  of  skin  sheath- 
ing them  reddened  and  weary.  It  was  the  sight 
they  looked  upon  that  made  them  weary:  a  line 
of  tents  not  five  hundred  yards  from  the  stoep, 
some  tin  shanties,  huge  piles  of  sleepers  and  rails, 
and  a  trail  of  pitched-up  rocks  and  yellowy-grey 
earth.  The  gangers  were  at  work  on  the  business 
of  bridging  the  Kat  River  and  laying  the  railway 
line  across  Jackalsfontein. 

The  old  veld  eyes  that  stared  at  that  hated 
sight  had  seen  many  strange  things  since  the 
morning  when  Braddon  made  his  first  appearance 
at  Jackalsfontein.  At  last  they  had  looked  upon 
the  sea,  and  the  ships  upon  it,  and  the  men  that 
go  in  the  ships;  upon  tram-cars  and  hansom  cabs 
and  streets  crowded  with  fashionable  women. 
Incidentally  they  had  seen  the  inside  of  a  Law 
Court,  not  once  but  many  times. 

On  six  several  occasions  Nick  had  donned  his 
black  stove-pipe  hat  and  driven  the  Clan- William 
bays  acquired  from  Carol  Uys  to  Piquetberg  and 


Progress  351 

been  accompanied  from  thence  to  Cape  Town  by 
Frickie  de  Villiers  the  slim.  But  all  the  sights  his 
eyes  had  there  beheld  brought  him  no  solace,  nor 
a  passing  thrill  of  interest.  He  had  been  at 
grapples  with  the  Government;  absorbed  in  the 
great  fight  to  keep  silent  and  naked  the  acres  that 
he  loved.  And  the  Government  had  defeated 
him.  The  railway  had  come! 

Money  had  flowed  like  water,  and  it  was  not 
Government  money.  Little  was  now  left  of  the 
original  £2000  that  once  had  lain  snug  in  the 
paraffin  tin  under  the  bed  of  the  defunct  Mrs. 
Retief.  To  drag  a  case  from  the  ordinary  courts 
to  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  land  and  from  thence 
to  appeal  to  the  House  of  Assembly  does  not  cost 
nothing.  Neither  do  the  services  of  such  slim 
ones  of  the  earth  as  Frickie  de  Villiers,  and  a  firm 
of  Cape  Town  solicitors  (who  were  Frickie's 
cousins)  and,  finally,  an  eminent  Q.  C.  (who  was 
Frickie's  uncle)  cost  nothing.  Nothing  costs 
nothing  when  it  comes  to  meddling  with  the 
law.  Nick  knew  this  now  to  his  cost.  Knew 
too  that  governments  can  be  vindictive  as  well 
as  arrogant.  He  had  never  heard  of  such  a 
person  as  Lord  Chesterfield,  but  of  one  Chest- 
erfieldism  at  least  he  was  now  in  a  position  to 
prove  the  truth: 


352  Wild  Honey 

"Never  quarrel  with  large  bodies  or  societies: 
Individuals  sometimes  forgive;  societies  never  do." 


Instead  of  awarding  him  the  compensation 
originally  suggested  for  Jackalsf ontein  the  Govern- 
ment had  set  a  fresh  brace  of  men  to  the  task 
of  assessment,  with  disastrous  results  for  Nick. 
These  officials,  practical  men  with  no  fantastic 
illusions  about  the  value  of  rock  veld,  rhenoster 
shrub,  and  stink-boschie,  had  written  Jackalsfon- 
tein  down  for  the  poorest  kind  of  cattle  land.  Such 
land  is  dirt  cheap  in  South  Africa,  and  the  Govern- 
ment was  well  within  its  rights  in  paying  for  it  at 
dirt-cheap  rates.  What  was  worse,  it  would  pay 
for  no  more  than  was  absolutely  needed  to  lay  a 
narrow  track  of  steel  rails.  The  land  that  lay  on 
either  side  of  the  fenced-off  track,  Nick  was  in- 
formed he  could  keep.  That  these  wire  fences 
would  cut  the  farm  in  two  thereby  lessening  its 
value,  and  that  the  nearest  crossing  gates  were  to 
be  erected  three  miles  away,  was  Nick's  misfortune, 
part  of  the  reward  he  had  reaped  for  "quarrelling 
with  large  bodies." 

At  any  rate,  it  was  all  over  now.  Nick  had 
eaten  and  drunk  of  Justice,  grace  had  been  said, 
and  it  was  finished.  The  iron  heel  of  the  Law  had 
him  down  in  the  dust.  Nothing  more  for  the  old 


Progress  353 

farmer  to  do  but  sit  in  the  sunshine  and  watch 
the  ridge  of  pitched-up  earth  creep  over  his  land. 
His  eyes  were  weary,  but  his  heart  was  like  a  red- 
hot  stone  in  his  side. 

He  no  longer  worked.  The  management  of  the 
farm  had  devolved  entirely  on  Chrissie,  and  though 
she  was  no  fool,  the  burden  of  care  and  responsi- 
bility weighed  heavily  on  her  shoulders. 

So  absorbed  was  the  old  man  in  this  business 
of  watching  that  he  appeared  to  have  forgotten 
everything  else.  He  came  out  in  the  dawn  and 
sat  through  the  unsheltered  day  in  his  reimpje 
chair.  Sometimes  even  after  night-fall  he  sat 
on,  staring  through  the  darkness  until  the  camp 
lights  died  out  and  all  was  wrapped  in  silence. 
Then  he  would  lift  up  his  great  bulk  and  shamble 
heavily  to  bed. 

And  with  each  day  his  bulk  seemed  to  grow 
greater.  It  was  not  a  wasting  sickness,  this  sick- 
ness he  had  of  hate  and  rage.  Chrissie  noticed 
on  the  day  of  his  last  return  from  Cape  Town, 
that  he  had  assumed  a  curious  resemblance  to  her 
mother  in  the  latter  stages  of  her  illness.  Old 
Tanta  Christina  had  died  of  dropsy,  and  the  girl 
sometimes  wondered  sadly  whether  the  same  dis- 
ease, common  amongst  Boers,  would  snatch  away 
her  father.  But  though  he  grew  swollen  and  visibly 

33 


354  Wild  Honey 

stouter  there  was  none  of  the  transparent  white- 
ness which  accompanies  dropsy.  Rather  his  col- 
ouring was  red  and  purple,  almost  as  if  a  fire, 
flaming  within,  boiled  the  very  blood  in  his  veins, 
bloating  out  his  body  and  blearing  his  eyes. 
There  were  hours  when  Chrissie  had  a  childish 
fear  that  he  would  burst.  These  were  usually 
the  hours  when  the  gangers  were  at  work  with 
dynamite. 

For  the  engineer  and  his  gang  were  not  finding 
the  affair  of  bridging  the  river  and  laying  the  rails 
across  Jackalsfontein  any  too  easy  to  accomplish. 
The  rocks,  concerning  whose  presence  the  valuers 
had  been  so  explicit,  justified  their  existence  by 
appearing  in  places'  where  they  could  best  have 
been  dispensed  with.  Dynamiting  went  on  three 
times  a  day,  and  three  times  a  day  men  fled 
in  every  direction  for  shelter.  Once,  during  the 
first  days  they  ran  to  the  farm,  but  no  more  than 
once.  The  grim  man  sitting  so  quiet  in  his  arm- 
chair frightened  them.  There  was  something 
awe-inspiring  about  that  big  figure  and  the  sombre, 
vigilant  glance  of  the  bloodshot  eyes.  A  super- 
stitious Irish  navvy  declared  that  the  farmer 
possessed  the  evil  eye  and  had  put  the  black  curse 
of  Ballyshane  on  them  all. 

It  is  true  that   an   extraordinary  number   of 


Progress  355 

accidents  had  distinguished  the  rail-laying  opera- 
tions since  Diepner's  land  had  been  left  for  Retief's. 
Scarcely  a  day  passed  without  witnessing  the 
sight  of  a  trolley  carrying  off  some  injured  ganger 
to  the  Cape  Town  Hospital. 

Those  in  charge  too,  had  experienced  trouble. 
Three  different  engineers  had  come  and  gone  since 
the  commencement  of  the  bridge.  First,  Braddon, 
after  waiting  for  two  months  on  the  Diepner  side 
of  the  river,  had  barely  settled  his  men  on  the 
Retief  side,  when  he  went  down  with  enteric  and 
had  to  be  trollied  off  to  the  old  Somerset  Hospital 
at  Cape  Town.  The  next  man  broke  his  leg  three 
weeks  after  taking  charge.  The  third  got  blood- 
poisoning  from  a  veld  sore.  A  temporary  man, 
put  in  charge,  was  called  away  to  Kimberley  by 
the  sudden  death  of  his  wife.  Now  Braddon,  after 
a  long  and  slow  convalescence,  was  back  again. 

He  and  Chrissie  had  met  only  twice  since  the 
date  of  their  first  acquaintance.  One  afternoon 
he  had  ridden  over  with  the  prints  of  her  photo- 
graph in  his  pocket.  Old  Retief  was  away  on  his 
first  visit  to  Cape  Town,  and  a  girl  friend  from 
Piquetberg  had  come  to  keep  Chrissie  company 
in  her  father's  absence.  It  happened  that  some 
folk  from  a  neighbouring  farm  were  also  visit- 
ing Jackalsfontein,  and  there  was  rather  a  large 


356  Wild  Honey 

gathering  in  the  big  Eat-kammer.  The  girls,  merry 
as  mossies  in  the  corn,  entertained  their  guests 
with  coffee  and  cookies  and  there  was  a  great  deal 
of  laughing.  Mart  Lategan,  the  Piquetberg  girl, 
was  of  the  giggling,  hoydenish  type,  and  if  Chrissie 
had  shown  herself  of  the  same  inclination  the  party 
might  have  developed  into  rather  a  rowdy  affair. 
It  is  easy  in  out-of-the-way  places  on  the  veld 
where  there  are  no  particular  standards  of  conduct 
and  the  climate  insidiously  slackens  the  moral 
and  physical  muscles,  to  pass  from  unrestrained 
laughter  to  the  broad  jokes  that  distinguish 
social  intercourse  amongst  the  less  cultivated 
Boers. 

But  about  Chrissie  Retief  there  was  a  new  and 
quiet  dignity  that  toned  down  the  noisy  humour 
of  the  others,  and  kept  a  certain  sweet  quality  in 
the  atmosphere,  like  a  fresh  breeze  blowing  through 
the  room.  It  seemed  as  though  in  her  father's 
absence  she  felt  the  honour  of  the  house  upon  her 
shoulders,  and  must  carry  it  carefully.  Braddon's 
eye  rested  often  on  her,  and  though  hardly  any 
conversation  passed  between  them  that  was  not 
common  with,  and  to,  the  others,  their  glances 
sometimes  crossed,  blended,  and  ended  in  each 
other's  eyes.  Just  before  he  left,  they  were  alone 
for  a  moment,  and  Braddon  was  able  to  produce 


Progress  357 

the  photographs.  She  went  red  with  pleasure, 
looking  quickly  from  one  pose  to  the  other. 

"Is  that  me,  then?     My!  how  nice  I  look!" 

"Not  nearly  nice  enough  for  you.  All  your 
lovely  colouring  is  lost,"  he  said,  looking  at  her 
rosy  cheek. 

"Ach!  sis,  toch,  Mr.  Braddon,  you  just  say 
those  things,"  she  murmured,  casting  down  her 
lashes. 

"They  are  true  though." 

"Are  these  both  for  me?"  she  asked  shyly. 

"Yes,  but  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  keeping 
a  print  of  each  for  myself.  I  hope  you  don't 
mind?" 

How  could  she  mind?  But  she  said  with  her 
Greuze  air: 

"I  can't  think  why  you  should  want  them!" 

"I  will  tell  you  some  day,"  was  his  last  word  to 
her,  and  he  rode  away  with  a  smile  on  his  lips. 

The  next  time  they  had  encountered  out  riding. 
Chrissie,  taking  a  canter  in  the  cool  of  the  after- 
noon on  one  of  the  Clan-William  bays,  met  him 
returning  from  a  long  day  of  acquiring  stores  in 
Piquetberg. 

He  was  hot  and  tired  and  thirsty  and  filled  with 
weariness;  but  after  a  few  moments  in  her  com- 
pany remembered  none  of  these  things.  It  was  as 


358  Wild  Honey 

if  a  tree  had  sprung  up  by  the  wayside,  with  a  seat 
beside  it  to  rest  on,  and  a  well  of  cool  spring  water 
for  refreshment.  There  was  something  so  alive, 
yet  restful  and  assuaging  about  the  girl.  The 
wind  had  beaten  a  bright  colour  into  her  face, 
health  and  vitality  showed  in  every  line  of  her, 
and  she  was  brimming  over  with  that  quality 
which  he  had  recognised  at  their  first  meeting 
and  which  had  turned  him  from  a  casual  caller 
into  a  man  who  would  come  again.  The  thing 
had  been  inexplicable  to  him  then  and  it  was  still 
so;  but  it  remained  a  fact.  It  was  as  intangible 
as  spirit,  yet  the  lure  of  coquetry  and  curves  and 
things  physical  was  queerly  mixed  up  with  it; 
loyalty,  and  strength,  and  tenderness;  and  a  cer- 
tain hardness  of  purpose,  and  a  hint  of  her  father's 
vague  shrewdness  as  his  eye  searched  the  bush 
for  far-off  sheep;  and  more  than  a  hint  of  his 
dogged  obstinacy  and  love  of  a  fight. 

Braddon  came  of  a  good  class  of  people  and  had 
known  in  his  own  country  many  charming  girls, 
most  of  them  prettier,  cleverer,  and  far  more  cul- 
tivated than  Chrissie.  Yet  in  her  he  divined  this 
something  which  they  had  lacked.  Some  fire 
burned  in  her  of  which  no  spark  had  gleamed  in 
them.  What  he  did  not  know  was  that  he  had 
met  in  Chrissie  one  of  those  subtle  combinations 


Progress  359 

of  sweetheart-wife-and-mother  which  old  Nature 
specially  breeds  in  big  wide  open  countries  where 
she  needs  strong,  hardy,  lusty  children  to  people 
her  empty  spaces.  He  only  knew  when  he  rode 
away  from  Chrissie  Retief  that  day  that  he  loved 
her  and  meant  to  do  all  he  could  to  get  her  for  his 
own. 

But  before  they  met  again  much  was  to  happen. 
During  the  next  few  weeks,  the  old  man's  cause 
was  clearly  lost  though  litigation  still  dragged  on, 
and  orders  came  to  Braddon  to  commence  opera- 
tions at  Jackalsfontein.  The  political  situation 
provided  a  further  complication  for  it  was  1899 
and  there  were  rumours  of  war  in  the  air.  The 
relation  between  Boer  and  Briton  had  long  been 
acutely  strained,  but  the  strain  was  now  approach- 
ing cracking-point.  Negotiations  between  Eng- 
land and  the  Transvaal  were  still  going  forward, 
but  it  was  clear  that  a  break-down  in  them  could 
be  expected  at  any  time,  and  the  Boers,  fighters 
by  nature  and  inclination,  and  longing  for  another 
turn-up  with  the  ancient  enemy,  were  praying  for 
that  break-down  to  come.  A  feeling  of  hostility 
between  the  two  races  exhibited  itself  all  over  the 
country  and  in  every  relation  of  life.  Braddon 
was  aware  of  it  when  he  went  into  Piquetberg  or 
had  any  dealing  with  the  farmers,  and  it  betrayed 


360  Wild  Honey 

itself  in  constant  rows  between  his  men,  who 
though  they  were  mostly  "coloured,"  took  sides, 
and  were  prepared  to  fight  for  their  opinions. 
The  skilled  mechanics  were  white  men  and  all 
Britishers  except  for  a  couple  of  half-Dutch 
colonials. 

Braddon  was  a  good  deal  worried  about  Chrissie, 
and  what  attitude  her  father  would  take  up  in 
the  event  of  his  being  required  to  accept  an  English- 
man as  his  son-in-law;  but  fate  postponed  the 
problem  for  him,  for  a  time  at  least,  by  laying  her 
hand  (with  typhoid  fever  in  it)  upon  him  and 
tucking  him  safely  away  in  hospital  for  a  couple 
of  months.  Now  he  was  back.  Chrissie  had  not 
seen  him  with  her  eyes,  but  she  knew  very  well 
that  he  was  there. 

The  door  opened  now  and  she  came  out  and 
stood  looking  sadly  at  her  father.  She  too  had 
subtly  changed.  Some  of  the  bubbling  youth 
was  gone  out  of  her;  the  shadows  in  the  gay  forget- 
me-not  eyes  had  grown  deeper;  her  lips  tipped 
downwards  at  the  corners. 

The  coming  war  between  Boer  and  Briton  had 
already  thrown  its  shadow  on  her  spirit;  and  too, 
the  gloom  of  her  father's  lost  law-case  enveloped 
her  as  it  did  all  else  at  the  farm.  She  knew  he  was 
a  ruined  man,  with  nothing  in  the  world  but  a 


Progress  361 

couple  of  hundred  pounds,  and  the  farm  reduced 
to  half  its  value.  She  was  no  longer  the  catch  of 
the  neighbourhood  from  a  marriageable  point  of 
view.  The  two  thousand  pounds  to  which,  as  her 
father's  only  living  child,  she  had  been  heiress  was 
gone  in  litigation,  leaving  her  just  like  any  other 
poor  back- veld  farmer's  daughter,  a  girl  who  must 
take  the  best  husband  she  could  get.  Not  that 
that  worried  her.  It  was  her  father's  changed 
habit  and  appearance  that  frightened  her.  She 
looked  at  him  now  with  sorrowful  eyes. 

"Ach!  my  lieber  fader,  don't  let  it  turn  your 
blood  like  that,  then!" 

She  often  made  that  remark  to  him,  and  he 
never  took  any  notice,  never  even  removed  his 
eyes  from  the  land,  though  his  hand  would  some- 
times mechanically  search  in  his  coat  pocket  for 
the  stumpy  roll  of  tabac  and  penknife. 

"Won't  you  corne  in,  Poppa?  The  sun  is  toch 
so  hot  out  here  for  you!" 

The  front  of  the  house  in  fact  lay  bathed  in 
the  full  flood  of  noon-day  heat.  No  shade  of 
flickering  blue-gum  leaves  sheltered  it  now, 
for  the  old  man  had  cut  down  the  row  of  trees 
level  with  the  stoep  so  that  no  obstacle  should 
impede  a  clear  vision  of  the  dirty  work  going 
forward. 


362  Wild  Honey 

"No  what,  I  am  maar  better  here,"  he  said 
slowly.  "I  can  maar  see  the  scoundrels." 

"Fi!  my  poor  Poppa!  what  does  it  then  do  for 
you,  but?  Only  makes  your  blood  turn  more  and 
more." 

"Chrissie,"  he  said  solemnly.  "My  blood  is 
turned  already.  I  feel  strange  in  the  stomach  and 
in  the  head  since  that  Judge —  '  He  shook  a  great 
fist  in  the  direction  of  the  railway  workings.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  ever  since  that  morning  his 
hand  had  strangely  increased  in  size. 

"Poppa  you  are  swelling  up!"  she  said  in  awe- 
struck tones. 

"Ja,  I  am  not  myself,"  he  muttered  dully. 
"It  is  those  stink- machines — and  that  cursed 
Judge." 

She  sighed.  It  was  nearly  two  months  since 
the  final  edict  had  been  given  against  him,  yet 
here  was  his  mind  still  travelling  back  and  forth 
on  the  thing  as  though  it  had  happened  yesterday ! 
The  world  had  stood  still  for  him !  She  let  her  gaze 
follow  the  same  direction  as  his,  putting  up  her 
hand  to  shelter  her  eyes  from  the  glare.  At  the 
camp  not  more  than  four  hundred  yards  away  the 
men  could  be  seen  moving  about.  Some  trolley 
loads  of  machinery  had  just  come  in,  and  the 
gangers  were  swarming  over  them  like  ants;  pull- 


Progress  363 

ing  at  and  handing  down  sleepers,  rails,  and  great 
steel  girders.  A  figure  dressed  in  white  ducks 
came  out  of  a  tent  and  directed  the  scene.  At 
the  sight  of  his  straight  back  and  easy  walk  a  little 
wave  of  colour  curved  into  the  girl's  cheek.  Sud- 
denly as  if  moved  by  machinery  the  red-shirted, 
grey-legged  men  all  ran  together,  converging  in  a 
cluster  about  one  spot.  Some  of  them  stooped 
down,  others  leaned  over  the  stoopers  to  look  at 
what  lay  on  the  ground.  Chrissie  held  her  breath 
until  she  saw  the  white-clothed  man  waving  the 
others  off.  It  was  one  of  the  red-shirted  labourers 
who  lay  so  still  on  the  ground. 

"There  has  been  an  accident!"  she  said  aloud, 
looking  at  her  father. 

"There  will  be  many  an  accident  before  it  is 
finished,"  he  muttered  darkly.  "God  is  on  my 
side.  He  will  make  them  pay  with  blood." 

"Maar,  Poppey,  it  is  not  the  fault  of  those 
poor  men!  They  have  to  earn  their  living,  but," 
she  expostulated.  "Look,  they  are  carrying  him 
to  a  tent — now  they  are—  She  broke  off 
and  stayed  watching.  It  was  plain  that  Braddon 
was  giving  certain  instructions.  He  pointed  to- 
wards the  farm,  and  the  men  looked  that  way, 
but  shook  their  heads  and  hung  back.  Then 
Braddon  himself  started  for  the  farm  with  long 


364  Wild  Honey 

swinging  paces.  The  colour  waned  out  of  Chris- 
sie's  face,  leaving  her  very  pale. 

"Poppa,  the  engineer  is  coming  here — you 
remember  him?" 

"  Ja,  I  remember  the  rooi-nek  good  enough." 

They  stayed  in  silence  then,  until  Braddon 
reached  the  stoep.  His  eyes  and  Chrissie's  met 
for  a  moment  as  he  stood  with  his  hat  off,  but  it 
was  Retief  whom  he  addressed. 

"We  have  had  an  accident,  Oom,  and  by 
bad  luck  not  a  drop  of  brandy  in  the  camp. 
Can  you  let  us  have  a  little?  Enough  to 
keep  the  man  going  until  we  get  him  into 
hospital." 

"I  have  brandy  but  not  for  you,"  was  the  surly 
response. 

Braddon  reddened  angrily,  but  he  knew  the  old 
man's  trouble,  and  strove  to  be  patient. 

"Oom,  it  is  not  for  me.  The  poor  fellow's  leg 
is  broken  in  two  places.  I  ask  you  in  common 
humanity." 

"That  talk  is  no  good  here.  You  will  get  no 
brandy  of  mine." 

"Sis,  Poppey,  then — "  put  in  Chrissie  in  soft 
remonstrance.  But  Poppey  turned  on  her  bel- 
lowing like  a  wounded  bull. 

"Is  this  my  house  or  yours?     Mastag!    Do  I 


Progress  365 

keep  brandy  to  pour  down  the  throats  of  rooi-neks 
who  steal  my  land?" 

Braddon  who  had  been  standing  with  his  hat 
off  now  replaced  it  and  turned  away.  It  was  only 
too  clear  that  he  was  wasting  time.  But  he  threw 
one  Parthian  shot  over  his  shoulder. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact  it  is  a  Dutchman  who  is 
hurt.  A  decent  young  fellow,  too,  of  the  same 
name  as  your  own."  He  walked  away. 

"How  can  you  be  so  cruel,  Poppa,  then?"  cried 
the  girl  turning  fiercely  on  her  father,  her  eyes 
bright  with  tears  and  anger. 

Receiving  no  answer  she  ran  into  the  house  t 
emerging  three  minutes  later  with  a  cappie  on  her 
head  and  a  bottle  in  her  hand.  Defiantly  she 
stood  before  her  father. 

"  I  am  going  to  take  him  the  brandy.  You  can 
beat  me  if  you  will,  but  I  shall  take  the  brandy." 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  with  terrible  eyes 
but  spake  no  word. 

"He  is  one  of  us — a  Retief — a  Boer!  It  would 
be  a  shame  on  us  if  we  let  him  perhaps  die  of  his 
sufferings." 

For  an  instant  longer,  she  paused,  her  foot  on 
the  step,  waiting  for  some  relenting  word  from 
him,  but  he  spake  nothing.  So  she  ran  down  the 
steps  and  across  the  veld  after  Braddon.  He  had 


366  Wild  Honey 

already  reached  the  camp  before  she  caught  him 
up,  and  another  man  was  saddling  a  horse  to  ride 
to  Diepner's,  some  three  miles  off. 

"Here  is  the  brandy,"  said  Chrissie  breathlessly, 
touching  his  arm  just  as  he  was  about  to  enter  the 
tent  where  the  injured  man  lay.  She  was  very 
white  for  all  her  running.  Braddon  took  the 
bottle  from  her  with  grateful  words,  and  would 
have  kept  her  hand,  but  she  drew  back  coldly. 

"  I  cannot  shake  hands  with  my  father's  enemies. 
It  is  only  because  the  man  is  a  Boer,  like  ourselves, 
that  I  have  come." 

The  Englishman,  intensely  chagrined,  stood 
staring  at  her  a  moment.  Then  he  said  abruptly : 

"Wait  one  moment  while  I  give  Retief  a  dose. 
Do  not  go.  I  must  speak  to  you." 

While  she  stood  hesitating,  he  disappeared  into 
the  tent,  returning  almost  immediately. 

"Come,  I  will  walk  back  with  you." 

"I  don't  require  your  escort,"  she  said  rudely. 
"I  am  on  my  father's  ground." 

Nevertheless,  he  walked  beside  her  as  she  moved 
quickly  away. 

"Chrissie!"  he  said  quietly.  "What  has  all 
this  trouble  about  the  land  and  about  war  to  do 
with  you  and  me?" 

She  did  not  answer,  only  walked  faster. 


Progress  367 

"I  am  only  an  employee  of  the  Government," 
he  continued.  "How  is  it  my  fault  if  they  take 
your  father's  land?" 

"I  do  not  say  that  it  is  your  fault,"  she  said. 
"But  it  turns  you  into  his  enemy — and  mine." 

"And  yours?"  he  repeated  reproachfully,  "I 
thought  you  were  more  just  than  that!" 

"I  am  the  daughter  of  a  Boer." 

"And  I  am  an  Englishman.  But  that  does  not 
prevent  me  from  loving  you." 

He  caught  hold  of  her  hands  and  made  her  stand 
still.  They  had  reached  a  spot  where  the  pome- 
granates hid  them  from  view  of  the  stoep. 

"Do  you  hear,  Chrissie?  I  love  you,  and  I 
want  to  marry  you." 

"Marry  an  Englishman?"  she  cried  violently. 
"Never.  It  would  break  my  father's  heart — 
and  mine  too."  With  a  quick  movement  she 
wrenched  her  hands  away  and  fled  from  him. 
He  turned  very  pale  and  stood  staring  after  her, 
his  mouth  set  in  a  grim  line. 

Returned  to  the  stoep,  Chrissie  found  Carol  Uys 
seated  there  talking  to  her  father.  It  transpired 
that  they  had  already  arranged  a  deal  by  which 
Carol  was  to  take  back  the  pair  of  bays  (with  a 
mule  thrown  in)  at  the  same  price  as  he  had  sold. 


368  Wild  Honey 

The  old  man  said  he  no  longer  needed  them  to 
take  him  to  kerk.  He  would  never  enter  a  kerk 
again  he  avowed. 

Carol  and  Chrissie  shook  hands  and  she  went 
indoors  where  he  presently  followed  her,  for  old 
Retief  had  fallen  once  more  into  absorbed 
reverie. 

"Chrissie,"  said  the  young  Dutchman,  "the 
war  will  soon  be  on  now.  Old  Oom  Paul  Kruger 
has  defied  the  rooi-neks,  and  we  are  to  fight." 

"Yes,  Carol,"  said  she,  listlessly  arranging  the 
coffee  cups. 

"I  shall  be  off  on  commands,  at  the  first  call." 

"You  think  there  will  be  fighting  in  this  district 
too?" 

"If  there  isn't,  I  shall  make  for  the  Transvaal." 

The  girl  fell  into  a  moment's  brooding  silence. 

"War  is  horrible!"  she  said  slowly. 

"Horrible,  yes,  maar  afterwards  we  shall  be 
the  baases,  and  call  our  country  our  own." 

"I  am  not  sure,  Carol;  they  say  these  English 
are  good  fighters." 

"Mastag!  and  what  about  the  Boers?  We  will 
show  them,  you  wait  a  little." 

After  another  silence,  he  spoke  again  in  a  differ- 
ent voice. 

"Chrissie " 


Progress  369 

Looking  up  she  saw  his  bashful  purpose  in 
his  eyes,  and  strove  to  avoid  the  issue. 

"Do  you  see  how  sick  my  Poppa  is,  Carol?" 

"Yes,  I  am  sorry,  Chrissie,  he  is  very  sick.  This 
trouble  with  the  railway  has  turned  his  blood, 
I'm  afraid." 

"God  knows  what  will  happen  if  he  does  not 
shake  it  off!  my  poor  old  Poppa,  it  will  kill  him." 
Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes  and  her  hands  trembled 
amidst  the  crockery.  Carol  seized  one  and  held  it 
fast. 

"Do  not  fret,  Chrissie,  I  will  take  care  of  you, 
if  you  will  let  me.  You  know  I  love  you  and  want 
to  marry  you.  I  have  already  asked  Oom  Nick 
and  he  has  given  his  consent.  Will  you  marry 
me,  Chrissie?" 

A  bitter  little  smile  twisted  her  lips.  It  seemed 
she  had  grown  suddenly  very  desirable,  since  two 
men,  within  an  hour,  should  ask  her  in  marriage! 

"I  do  not  love  you,  Carol,"  she  said  quietly. 
His  face  fell. 

"I  used  to  think,  Chrissie — but  lately  you  are 
so  changed." 

"Yes,  I  am  changed,"  she  answered  staring  out 
through  the  open  door,  to  the  tents  away  by  the 
river.     "I  am  changed,  Carol.     I  wish  I  were  not 
a  Boer  maisie." 
34 


370  Wild  Honey 

He  did  not  understand  this,  but  it  sounded  like 
treason,  and  he  rebuked  it. 

"  But  you  are  a  Boer  maisie,  Chrissie.  And  you 
must  not  forget  it." 

"No,  I  shall  never  forget  it,"  she  said  slowly, 
"and  because  of  it  I  will  marry  you,  if  you  still  wish 
it,  Carol.  I  do  not  love  you,  but  I  will  be  a  good 
wife  to  you." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you,  my  Chrissie. 
I  too  will  be  a  good  man  to  you.  You  will 
see." 

The  list  of  killed  and  injured  on  the  railway 
workings  continued,  and  by  the  time  the  bridge 
of  the  Kat  River  was  nearing  completion  and  the 
line  across  Jackalsfontein  almost  laid,  it  made 
heavy  reading  for  some  wives  and  mothers,  and 
a  Government  whose  business  it  was  to  compen- 
sate them.  The  annoying  part  of  the  matter  was 
that  there  were  no  shoulders  upon  which  blame  for 
the  chapter  of  accidents  could  justly  be  laid. 
"Acts  of  Providence"  cannot  be  quarrelled  with. 
Though  why  "the  Hand  of  God"  should  have 
fallen  so  heavily  upon  that  special  part  of  the  line 
was  incomprehensible  to  the  gangers,  who  were 
inclined  to  insinuate  that  Lucifer  (aided  by  a  cer- 
tain strange  and  monstrous-looking  old  man  who 


Progress  371 

sat  eternally  watching  from  his  stoep)  had  more 
to  do  with  the  matter. 

Nick  Retief 's  arm-chair  no  longer  accommodated 
him.  The  large  oak  and  leather  settle  from  the 
kitchen  had  been  brought  out  and  in  its  broad  seat 
he  sat  daily,  his  great  head  sunk  on  his  breast, 
staring  with  blue  eyes  grown  dim.  He  was  now 
enormously  swollen  and  of  an  extraordinary  vivid 
colour.  Rage  and  bitter  anger  had  so  poisoned 
his  nature  that  it  seemed,  even  as  Chrissie  in  her 
simple  way  expressed  it,  as  if  his  blood  had 
"turned"  or  decomposed  in  his  veins.  Yet, 
despite  its  grotesqueness,  there  was  something 
heart-rendingly  pathetic  in  the  figure  of  this  old- 
time  Boer  who  had  fought  to  defeat  Progress  and 
been  defeated  instead. 

He  had  to  be  helped  to  bed  now,  with  Chrissie 
on  one  side  and  Shangaan  Jim,  his  oldest  Kaffir 
boy,  supporting  him  on  the  other.  But  there  came 
a  night  when  they  could  not  lead  him  to  his  bed; 
his  bulk  had  so  much  increased  during  the  day 
that  it  was  in  vain  to  try  and  pass  him  through 
the  front  door.  Chrissie  burst  into  tears. 

"Oh!  foy  toch,  my  poor  Poppey,  what  are  we 
to  do  now?" 

"Bring  out  my  mattress.  I  will  sleep  here 
where  I  can  see  my  land,"  said  the  old  man. 


372  Wild  Honey 

So  they  brought  out  his  mattress,  and  he  went 
to  bed  on  the  stoep.  Shangaan  Jim  sat  by  him 
through  the  night,  and,  long  after  she  had  retired, 
Chrissie  could  hear  his  mumbling  voice  relating 
with  many  clicks  and  ejaculations  tales  of  when 
he  had  worked  in  the  mines  at  the  Diamond  Fields. 

The  next  day  at  Nick  Retief's  command  the 
big  iron  and  brass  bedstead  in  which  his  wife  had 
died  was  set  up  on  the  stoep.  He  slept  in  it,  and 
again  Shangaan  Jim  stayed  by  him  relating  strange 
stories.  The  morning  after,  the  old  man  did  not  rise 
from  his  bed;  only  called  to  them  to  bring  many 
pillows,  and  prop  him  up,  so  that  he  could  see. 

"It  is  nearly  finished,"  he  muttered  staring 
across  the  blue-gum  stumps  that  now  were  burst- 
ing into  great  clusters  of  silvery  blue  leaves, 
"and  I  am  nearly  finished  too." 

The  two  thin  lines  of  steel  glittering  under  the 
moonbeams  had,  in  fact,  almost  reached  the  east- 
ern boundary-line  of  Jackalsfontein.  Soon  the  old 
man's  eyes  would  be  pained  no  longer  by  the  piles 
of  wood  and  steel,  the  tents  and  paraphernalia 
of  the  camp.  Shangaan  Jim  brought  the  news 
that  all  would  be  removed  next  day.  Chrissie 
found  him  whispering  by  the  bedside  as  the  sun 
went  down,  and  wondered  to  see  a  smile  on  her 
father's  face  for  the  first  time  in  many  months — 


Progress  373 

if  that  strange  distortion  of  bloated  and  discol- 
oured flesh  could  be  called  a  smile? 

"  Shall  I  come  sit  by  you  to-night  for  a  while, 
Poppey?"  she  asked,  leaning  tenderly  over  him. 
"And  let  Shangaan  go  to  his  hut?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "let  Shangaan  go."  He 
looked  up  at  the  big  Kaffir,  and  Chrissie  fancied  she 
saw  a  glance  of  some  significance  pass  between 
them,  but  thought  she  must  be  mistaken. 

At  any  rate,  Shangaan  Jim  went  away,  and  she 
sat  talking  to  her  father  for  a  long  while,  listening 
preciously  to  every  broken  muttered  word  that 
fell  from  him,  for  she  was  well  aware  that  the  end 
was  near. 

He  spoke  of  her  marriage  with  Piet.  It  was 
not  such  a  marriage  as  he  had  hoped  for  her.  One 
of  those  pat-looping  Uyses!  But  still,  Piet  was  a 
good  fellow,  and  the  only  one  of  her  suitors  who 
had  remained  faithful,  now  that  the  money  was 
all  gone!  Piet  would  be  a  good  husband,  but  she 
must  look  after  the  farm,  or  he  would  be  robbed 
and  lose  it,  and  have  to  retire  to  the  back  lands 
and  the  bad  veld  like  all  the  Uys  clan  who  were 
bad  managers,  though  they  were  good  men.  He 
made  her  promise  that  she  would  marry  Piet  soon, 
so  that  when  the  war  broke  out  she  could  follow 
him  to  the  field  if  need  be. 


374  Wild  Honey 

"As  your  mother  would  have  followed  me,"  he 
said,  and  looked  up  at  the  pale  still  face  of  his 
child.  For,  in  proportion  to  his  great  increase 
of  colour  and  stature  she  had  grown  whiter  and 
thinner.  Grief  for  his  condition  and  some  other 
secret  sorrow  brought  tears  to  wet  her  pillow  many 
a  night,  underlined  her  eyes,  and  carved  faint 
hollows  in  her  cheeks.  Bubbling  youth  was  quite 
gone  out  of  Chrissie. 

As  the  night  wore  on,  the  old  man,  stirring  and 
turning  on  his  pillows,  grew  more  restless.  He  panted 
and  gasped  and  some  strange  excitement  seemed 
tormenting  him,  making  him  roll  and  struggle  like 
a  great  helpless  beetle.  And  always  he  strained 
to  keep  his  head  high  on  the  pillows  so  that  he 
might  stare,  and  stare  across  the  land.  Sometimes 
he  held  his  breath  and  seemed  to  be  listening. 

It  must  have  been  near  midnight  when  a  tre- 
mendous explosion  shook  the  earth,  breaking 
every  pane  of  glass  in  the  windows  behind  them, 
rattling  the  old  farmhouse  as  though  it  were  made 
of  reeds,  and  crashing  and  booming  across  the 
empty  veld  like  the  crack  of  doom. 

Suddenly,  down  by  the  workers'  encampment, 
flames  sprang  up  and  cries  and  groans  were  heard. 
Chrissie,  recovered  from  her  first  shock  of  terror 
and  amazement,  sprang  up. 


Progress  375 

"Father!"  she  cried,  then  stood  still  staring. 
The  old  man  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  his  eyes  alight 
with  a  dreadful  fire. 

"Now,  I  can  die  in  peace,"  he  shouted.  "Jim 
knew  what  to  do  with  their  dynamite  tent !  Good 
boy,  Jim!  Didn't  I  warn  them  that  I  would  blow 
them  off,  if  they  came  meddling  with  my  land?" 

With  a  great  shout  of  laughter  that  rang  across 
the  veld  like  a  bell,  he  fell  back  upon  his  pillows. 
There  was  a  terrible  gurgling  sound  in  his  throat, 
and  all  was  still. 

One  long  look  at  the  dead  face,  then  Chrissie 
ran  down  the  steps  and  sprang  across  the  veld. 
Men's  forms  were  moving  hither  and  thither, 
carrying  the  dead  and  wounded  away  from  the 
raging  flames.  Groans  resounded  everywhere, 
and  there  were  bitter  cries  for  water.  To  one 
such  cry,  in  a  voice  she  knew,  Chrissie  flew  like  an 
arrow  from  a  bow. 

She  found  him  lying  where  the  explosion  had 
thrown  him,  far  down  the  river  bank,  shattered, 
broken,  dying;  and  when  she  had  given  him  water, 
she  kissed  his  lips,  and  baring  her  breast  let  his 
head  lie  there,  sobbing  out  his  life's  blood  against 
her  heart. 


The  Promise  of  Life 


377 


The   Promise  of  Life 

1  T  HAVE   been  trying  to  meet  you  ever  since 
*     I  came  to  Durban,"  said  the  boy,  in  a  voice 
that  all  the  world  might  hear,  so  young  it  was  and 
eager. 

There  was  a  stir  among  that  portion  of  the 
world  present  in  Mrs.  Carr-Ellison's  drawing- 
room.  The  man  playing  beautiful,  desultory 
modulations  on  the  grand  piano  struck  a  passion- 
ate chord  and  quivered  off  into  the  treble  softly 
so  that  he  might  hear  the  woman's  answer; 
several  scandalised  skirts  shivered  and  seemed  to 
whisper,  but  the  woman  on  the  high-backed,  gold 
satin  sofa,  did  not  disturb  herself.  She  sat  un- 
smiling, her  head  resting  against  the  back  of  the 
sofa,  her  arms  stretched  wide  on  either  side  of  her. 
She  had  the  despairing,  unlighted  eyes  that 
tell  of  a  soul's  light  gone  out,  and  her  mouth 
drooped  bitterly  at  the  corners ;  but  her  hair  was 
very  beautifully  arranged,  and  her  pale  gown  with 

379 


380  Wild  Honey 

its  gloomy  sleeves  and  silvery  bands  must  have 
taken  some  weeks  to  design. 

"I  saw  your  picture  on  Le  Poer's  table,  and  I 
told  him  to  give  me  an  introduction  to  you;  but 
the  beggar  wouldn't,"  the  boy  went  on;  and  the 
skirts  drawn  closer,  whispered  again.  Le  Poer 
was  the  fastest  man  in  the  fastest  military  set  in 
Maritzburg;  what  was  Miss  Wilde's  picture  doing 
on  his  table?  Really,  these  writing  women  were 
very  queer,  one  never  knew  what  they  were  up  to, 
coming  from  Heaven  knows  where,  and  settling 
down  in  rooms  without  a  chaperone,  writing  for 
newspapers. 

"Oh!"  the  sphinx  woman  had  spoken  at  last 
but  her  voice  was  very  tired  and  uninterested. 
She  was  used  to  having  men  try  to  meet  her,  and 
candour  did  not  appeal  to  her  very  much.  She 
had  long  ago  worn  out  her  interest  in  the  obvious, 
and  walked  through  life  now  with  ears  only  for 
the  silences,  and  eyes  only  for  the  things  not  seen, 
unless  they  were  the  traces  of  pain  quivering  the 
surface  under  which  she  lived.  She  was  always 
interested  in  pain. 

The  boy's  persistence  worried  her;  his  words 
seemed  very  crude.  Yet  a  certain  vigour  in  his 
voice  drew  her  eyes  up  to  where,  waiting  for  one 
or  other  of  the  men  at  her  side  to  move,  he  stood 


The  Promise  of  Life  381 

before  her.  It  occurred  to  her  then  that  for  so 
tall  a  man  he  stood  up  with  remarkable  calmness 
and  indifference  where  everyone  was  seated. 

"The  stage,"  she  thought,  then  mused  as  to 
how,  if  she  were  writing  of  him,  she  could  best 
describe  the  young  untidy  way  his  hair  grew  above 
his  forehead. 

"Ragged  would  be  too  extravagant,"  were 
the  words  that  formed  themselves  in  her  mind 
with  a  sense  of  familiarity  that  puzzled  her,  until 
in  a  flash  she  remembered  that  the  night  before 
she  had  seen  him  on  the  stage,  and  had  thought 
the  same  thought  about  his  hair. 

"Ah!  the  apothecary!"  she  exclaimed,  and 
sitting  up,  stared  back  into  his  blue,  intense  eyes. 

"  She  is  really  a  little  mad, "  thought  Mrs.  Carr- 
Ellison,  who,  at  first  distressed  at  the  girl's  un- 
sociability  to  a  strange  guest,  was  now  filled  with 
vague  embarrassment  to  see  them  staring  into 
each  other's  eyes  and  babbling  of  apothecaries. 
She  did  not  appreciate  that  to  Dolores  Wilde  the 
boy  had  changed  suddenly  into  a  man — a  man 
who  had  lived  and  suffered  and  understood;  and 
that  with  the  memory  of  how,  in  the  few  lines 
assigned  to  him  as  the  starving  seller  of  drugs  and 
potions  in  Shakespeare's  greatest  romance — he 
had  supplied  the  touch  of  tragedy  that  to  her 


382  Wild  Honey 

made  the  play  real  life,  her  inmost  soul  leaped  out 
to  him  as  a  comrade.  While,  though  she  knew 
it  not,  her  hands  were  already  at  his  heart-strings. 

Mrs.  Carr-Ellison  did  not  see  these  things, 
because  they  were  not  to  be  seen.  She  only 
thought  that  it  was  very  queer  and  Bohemian 
of  Miss  Wilde  to  behave  so,  and  a  very  bad 
example  for  her  daughter  Gwen,  who  was  observing 
the  proceedings  with  all  her  eyes  and  ears;  so  she 
interrupted  that  touching  of  spirit  hands  with  a 
commonplace. 

"Mr.  Scarlett,"  she  said,  "do  take  Miss  Wilde 
into  the  verandah,  and  get  some  ices  for  your- 
selves." 

They  refused  the  ices  earnestly,  sharing  a  smile ; 
but  they  were  glad  to  go.  He  followed  the  trails 
of  her  strange  gown  through  the  wide  dim-lit 
verandahs,  and  found  her  a  chair  in  a  far  corner 
where  the  light  from  above  fell  palely  into  her 
eyes,  and  restless  shadows  of  maidenhair  fern 
played  about  her  drooping  mouth. 

"Your  picture  spoke  to  me  from  Le  Poer's 
table,"  he  said,  as  though  there  had  been  no 
interruption,  "and  then  he  told  me  all  about  you. 
Do  you  mind?  Ever  since  I  have  wanted  to 
speak  to  you,  and  tell  you  that  you  shall  not 
always  be  sad.  Look  here," — his  expressions 


The  Promise  of  Life  383 

were  very  boyish, — "I  have  had  my  life  broken 
up  too,  and  yet  I  am  beginning  to  be  glad  again, 
and  you  must.  You  are  too  sweet  and  splendid 
to  be  always  sad." 

"You  are  very  young,"  she  answered  quietly, 
wondering  why  she  did  not  resent  the  first  spoken 
sympathy  anyone  had  dared  to  offer  her  in  all 
these  years.  "For  me — I  am  an  old  woman." 

He  was  twenty-eight,  and  she  was  a  year 
younger,  but  he  knew  how  sorrow  ages  the  heart, 
and  understood.  He  moved  a  pot  of  fern  away 
from  her  feet,  because  it  seemed  to  blur  the 
picture  of  her,  sitting  there,  and  a  crumple  it 
had  made  in  the  hem  of  her  gown  he  smoothed 
out  with  the  simplicity  of  a  child  and  the  gentle 
hands  of  a  woman. 

"I  am  not  so  young.  I  have  tasted  the  rough 
of  the  world  and  some  of  its  joys,  and  I  still  love 
the  joys.  You  are  in  danger  of  loving  its  sorrows 
so  much  that  you  will  not  be  able  to  be  happy 
again  when  you  have  the  chance." 

"I  shall  never  have  the  chance,  boy,  not  in 
this  world  anyhow;  the  gods  will  take  care  of 
that." 

"Well,  in  the  next  then,"  he  persisted.  "I 
have  all  sorts  of  splendid  theories  about  our 
failures  here  being  our  triumphs  there,  haven't 


384  Wild  Honey 

you?  Don't  you — when  things  go  all  askew,  find 
yourself  building  on  what  comes — after?" 

Her  lips  curved  in  a  wry  smile.  Truth  to  tell, 
this  world  had  treated  her  so  ill  that  she  had  but 
small  hope  of  the  next. 

He  went  on  speaking  with  an  amazing  buoyancy 
in  his  voice. 

"If  death  were  not  so  hemmed  in  with  the  sick- 
ness and  horrors  that  frighten  a  man!  If  it 
would  only  come  to  one  quickly,  out  in  the  open 
air  and  sunshine — in  a  rush  of  living  excitement — 
how  many  of  us  would  stay,  I  wonder?" 

"I  would,"  she  cried,  with  a  shiver,  "I  would." 

"I  wouldn't,"  he  said  fervently.     "I  am  so 

curious  and  interested  in  what  is  hidden  that 
j " 

"Don't,"  she  cried  out,  half  in  anger,  "you  are 
so  young,  so  full  of  the  joy  of  life,  why  do  you 
speak  of  death?  Earth  must  be  very  sweet  to 
you  yet." 

"So  it  is,"  he  assented,  quickly;  "and there  are 
always  ambitions  here." 

"Ah,  yes!"  she  said,  with  the  relief  of  one  whose 
feet  have  found  firm  ground.  "Our  ambitions. 
What  do  you  want?" 

He  sat  up  very  straight,  and  his  eyes  seemed  to 
grow  bluer.  He  loved  his  profession. 


The  Promise  of  Life  385 

"I  want  to  be  as  fine  as  Ravenhill  first.  You 
have  seen  his  Hamlet,  and  know  what  that  means. 
I  want  to  be  his  equal  and  then — alone.  Then— 
but  one  want  at  a  time  is  enough,  if  you  mean  to 
achieve  it.  What  do  you  want?" 

She  had  wanted  many  things.  Her  wants  had 
formed  the  lever  by  which  the  gods  had  worked 
their  irony  upon  her;  and  her  portion  had  been 
dead  sea-apples.  So  now  she  "went  softly  under 
the  stars,"  and  voiced  no  want.  But  oh!  to 
write  something  good — not  the  petty  drivel  of 
Women  and  Emancipation — but  something  alive 
and  true,  so  that  Meredith,  and  Kipling,  and 
Hardy  would  some  day  take  her  by  the  hand  and 
greet  her  "comrade."  Oh!  to  fill  in  her  life  with 
work,  work,  work,  work,  noble  work,  so  that  there 
was  never  a  gap  left  to  remember  in.  O !  for  rest 
from  the  torment  of  memory  and  an  empty  heart. 

Did  she  tell  him  these  things,  or  did  he  simply 
understand?  She  never  remembered  afterwards, 
but  she  knew  that  he  knew,  on  that  sweet,  tropical 
summer  night. 

They  sat  late  talking. 

The  hostess  gave  her  into  his  charge,  and,  like 
all  the  other  guests,  they  went  away  in  a  ricksha, 
with  the  bells  tinkling  and  the  Zulu  boy's  white 
suit  gleaming  in  the  vapoury,  delicate  light  shed 


386  Wild  Honey 

by  a  slender  fragment  of  moon  and  a  star -splashed 
sky. 

"Doesn't  it  appal  you  sometimes  to  think  how 
much  that  little  fragment  of  moon  knows  about 
you?"  she  asked.  "She  has  seen  all  one's  sins 
and  all  one's  sufferings " 

"And  knows  the  reason  for  both,"  he  said 
quietly. 

She  shivered,  and  her  little  lonely  hands,  ly- 
ing on  the  ricksha  coverlet  like  white  flowers, 
trembled,  so  that  he  took  them  up  and  held  them. 

"Some  day  she  will  see  you  happy,  too,"  he 
said,  "for  she  is  a  very  tender  old  moon." 

And  when  Dolores  would  have  laughed  her  little 
bitter  laugh  at  the  thought  of  happiness,  no  sound 
would  come,  for  the  bitterness  was  all  gone,  and  a 
great  peace  had  fallen  on  her  heart. 

At  her  door  he  spoke  of  a  reception  which  was 
to  be  given  the  next  night  to  a  famous  singer  who 
was  visiting  Natal.  They  were  both  going  to  the 
reception,  but  he  would  be  late,  he  said.  He 
was  "on"  in  the  last  act  of  Romeo  and  Juliet. 
Would  she  keep  him  a  dance  if  there  was  any 
dancing  afterwards?  She  promised. 

When  the  next  night  came  he  was  very  late,  but 
he  came  straight  to  her,  and  the  peace  within  her 
deepened  as  she  felt  his  arm  about  her. 


The  Promise  of  Life  387 

She  did  not  look  up  at  him,  for  his  eyes  had 
grown  so  deeply,  fiercely  blue,  that  she  dared  not 
meet  them  there,  before  all  the  world. 

While  they  danced,  and  all  too  soon,  the  music 
swerved  suddenly  from  the  waltz  into  "God  Save 
the  Queen, "  and  their  evening  was  over.  He  was 
fain  to  take  her  to  the  cloak-room,  where  a  woman 
friend  waited;  but  in  the  shadow  of  the  doorway 
he  spoke. 

"I  find  I  want  something  else,  besides  fame. 
Will  you  give  it  to  me,  you  sweet,  sad  woman?" 

She  could  not  speak,  her  heart  was  in  her  throat ; 
but  the  droop  had  gone  from  her  lips,  and  her  eyes 
were  shining  in  the  dark  like  velvet  stars. 

"When  may  I  come  to  you!    To-morrow?" 

Her  heart  urged  yes,  but  her  brain  remembered 
that  to-morrow  she  must  interview  the  famous 
singer.  She  would  give  it  up,  she  thought  swiftly, 
and  let  her  newspaper  go.  But  no!  Perhaps,  if 
she  denied  herself  for  a  few  short  hours,  the  gods 
would  remember,  and  make  her  reward  the  sweeter. 
She  must  make  some  sacrifice  for  this  great 
happiness. 

"No;  Wednesday,"  she  whispered,  and  quickly, 
for  fear  she  should  revoke : 

"Good-night." 


388  Wild  Honey 

For  a  day  of  general  rejoicing,  as  the  twenty- 
fourth  of  May  always  is  in  the  Colonies,  Tuesday 
dawned  drab  and  dreary. 

Looking  from  her  window  in  the  early  morning, 
Dolores  could  see  the  waves  rushing  and  ravening 
wildly  in  the  bay,  and  beating  themselves  in  foamy 
fury  against  the  embankment. 

"They  will  have  a  dreadful  day  for  their  aquatic 
sports,"  she  thought,  recalling  a  typed  headline 
she  had  seen  in  the  editor's  office  the  day  before, 
and  remembering  how,  on  public  holidays,  every- 
one in  Durban  went  on  to  the  bay;  but  she  did 
not  care  very  much.  The  wind  might  blow  and 
the  sea  might  lash  from  that  day  forth  for  ever- 
more, it  would  not  matter  to  her.  Nothing 
mattered  but  that  the  gods  had  relented.  The 
gods!  What  gods?  There  was  only  one  God. 
Cecil  Scarlett's  God,  and  He  was  very  good.  He 
had  forgiven  her  for  her  pagan  heart,  and  the 
years  of  misery  had  dropped  from  her.  Cecil 
Scarlett  wanted  her,  and  she  was  the  King's 
daughter  among  women.  Life  seemed  worth  the 
trouble  again,  and  the  joy  of  eventful  living  came 
back  with  the  flush  and  swell  of  a  tide. 

She  fell  to  mapping  out  her  day  so  that  every 
chink  of  it  should  be  filled  up  until  she  saw  him 
again.  Her  interview  with  Madame,  the  singer, 


The  Promise  of  Life  389 

at  eleven ;  the  afternoon  to  write  it  up,  and  to  finish 
some  other  work  for  her  editor;  then  the  famous 
lady's  concert,  which  she  must  attend  that  night 
and  criticise  for  her  paper.  And  after?  The 
thought  came  over  her  that  she  could  not  wait 
till  to-morrow,  she  must  see  him  before.  She 
would  go  to  the  theatre  after  the  concert,  slip 
into  her  place  in  the  stage-box,  and  he  would  see 
her  and  come  to  her  afterwards.  So  it  would 
come  sooner  after  all.  She  would  wear  her  prim- 
rose gown — years  ago  she  had  been  beautiful  in 
yellow — she  would  be  beautiful  again  to-night 
for  him  (a  wild-rose  flush  flew  into  her  cheeks); 
no  more  black  and  white  gowns  for  her.  Ah! 
surely  the  day  would  be  too  long. 

As  she  dressed,  words  to  fit  her  mood  came  to 
her  in  the  lines  of  Alice  Meynell's  Renouncement — 

I  must  not  think  of  thee;  and,  tired  yet  strong, 
I  shun  the  thought  that  dwells  in  all  delight — 
The  thought  of  thee — and  in  the  blue  heavens'  height, 
And  in  the  sweetest  passage  of  a  song. 

Once  during  the  afternoon  she  left  her  work  on  an 
impulse  and  went  into  the  balcony  for  a  moment. 

A  fresh,  strong  wind,  smelling  of  the  sea,  was 
blowing,  and  the  sun  had  burst  radiantly  from 
behind  the  clouds. 


390  Wild  Honey 

Suddenly  she  had  a  strong  impression  of  Cecil 
Scarlett. 

She  closed  her  eyes  involuntarily,  and  the  wind 
rushed  across  her  parted  lips.  It  was  almost 
as  if  he  had  kissed  her  — the  kiss  she  had  seen  in 
his  eyes  the  night  before. 

"And  in  the  sweetest  passage  of  a  song,"  she 
whispered,  as,  her  day's  work  over,  she  sat  facing 
the  platform  in  the  crowded  concert  hall ;  and  she 
told  herself  that  she  would  not  give  up  one  of  the 
tormented  moments  that  kept  her  from  him. 

While  the  audience  waited  for  the  appearance 
of  the  woman  whose  wonderful  voice  had  never 
before  been  heard  on  African  shores,  not  she,  but 
one  of  her  company — a  dark,  sombre-eyed  woman 
— came  on  to  the  platform  with  music  in  her  hand. 

Dolores  trembled.  Why  was  this?  Who  was 
this  sorrowful  woman?  Had  not  she,  Dolores, 
done  forever  with  sorrow? 

Then  Sarah  Berry's  tragic  contralto  at  its 
wildest  and  saddest  rang  out  and  rilled  the  hall 
with  words  of  Cowen's  Promise  of  Life.  When 
she  had  finished,  and  the  whole  house  was  on  its 
feet  calling  her  back,  Dolores  sat  hushed,  stricken 
in  her  seat  by  the  conviction  which  had  come 
to  her  with  the  song — the  conviction  that  Sorrow 


The  Promise  of  Life  391 

had  not  done  with  her — that  she  was  Tragedy's 
own. 

The  old  cold  gnaw  was  back  at  her  heart;  she 
felt  with  a  terrible  sense  of  premonition  that  she 
was  waiting  to  be  struck;  and,  while  she  waited,  a 
woman's  smooth,  superficial  voice  said  behind  her : 

"Have  you  heard,  Miss  Wilde,  that  one  of  the 
Ravenhill  Company  was  drowned  in  the  bay 
this  afternoon?  He  and  some  others  were  going 
to  the  rescue  of  some  wrecked  people.  Quite 
young,  they  say.  Dreadful,  isn't  it?  The  theatre 
is  closed." 

Someone  cried,  "Hush!"  Sarah  Berry  had 
come  back,  and  was  singing  again  the  last  verse 
of  her  song. 

There  is  no  life  that  hath  not  held  some  sorrow, 
There  is  no  soul  but  hath  its  secret  strife. 
Still  our  eyes  smile — our  hearts  pray  for  to-morrow, 
Fair  in  its  promise  of  more  perfect  Life. 

Earth  is  not  all.     His  angels  ever  hearken 
Heaven  shall  make  perfect  our  imperfect  life. 

Dolores  sat  ashen-faced  and  stony -eyed;  but 
peace  was  in  her  heart.  She  could  not  grieve  "as 
others  which  have  no  hope." 


"  Grips  like  a  vise  and  clings  like  a  burr." 

Chicago  Record  "Herald. 

POPPY 

The  Story  of  a  South  African  Girl 
By  Cynthia  Stockley 

The  Bookman,    in   a   long  review,    concludes 
by  saying: 

"  It  shows  the  bravery  of  self-conquest, 
the  courage  of  mother  love  that  fights  the 
world  single-handed,  stubbornly  living  down 
the  world's  neglect  and  scorn,  and  winning 
victory  through  the  love  and  the  loss  of  a  little 
child.  And  back  of  the  tenderness  and  the 
pathos,  never  intruding,  yet  never  forgotten, 
is  the  wonderful,  luminous  atmosphere  of 
Africa,  with  its  mysterious  colors  and 
shadows  and  scents,  and  the  ever-present 
suggestion  of  flowering  bushes,  'redolent  with 
a  fragrance,  like  the  fragrance  of  a  beautiful 
woman's  hair.*  " 

Eleventh  Printing 

With  Frontispiece.    $135  net  ($1,50  by  mail) 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


By  the  Author  of 
Poppy,"  "The  Claw" 


WANDERFOOT 


By  CYNTHIA  STOCKLEY 

72°.       With  Portrait  of  Author.      $1.35  net. 
By  mail,  $1 50 

Like  Poppy  and  The  Clan,  the  present  story  is 
written  in  a  sweeping,  dramatic,  intensive,  and 
colorable  style  commensurate  with  the  big  issues 
of  life  that  the  characters  confront. 

"  Wanderfoot"  is  the  pen-name  of  the  heroine, 
a  woman  journalist  who  has  been  borne  along 
swiftly  on  the  wings  of  dreams,  but  like  all  the 
self-dependent  has  experienced,  too,  the  hard 
touch  of  the  actual,  a  woman  without  root  or 
anchor,  a  wanderer  over  the  face  of  the  world, 
who,  nevertheless,  finds  the  harbor  of  love  and, 
though  driven  out  from  that  harbor, — her  dream 
shipwrecked  and  shattered, — is  again  united, 
after  a  succession  of  strange  vicissitudes  and 
character-testing  experiences,  with  a  man  to 
whom  her  destiny  is  linked. 

New  York    G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons    London 


"  A  vivid,  story  of  a  girVs  life  in  South  Africa  " 

THE  CLAW 

By  CYNTHIA  STOCKLEY 

Author  of  "Poppy,"  etc. 

From  James  L.  Ford's  review  in  the  N.  Y.  Herald: 

"  The  quality  of  interest  that  it  possesses  in  a 
marked  degree  begins  in  its  very  first  page  and 
continues  in  constantly  growing  strength  until 
the  final  denouement." 

"  Innumerable  feminine  touches  of  exquisite  deli- 
cacy and  naturalness.  We  catch  glimpses  not 
only  of  a  beautiful  woman,  but  of  a  feminine  soul 
filled  with  religion  that  knows  no  cant  and  at 
the  same  time  instinct  with  innocent  coquetry 
and  that  desire  to  please  which  makes  for  love- 
liness in  the  eyes  of  men.  ...  A  story  so  vivid 
and  interesting." 

THE  CLAW 

A  STORY  OF  SOUTH  AFRICA 

Third  Impression   flow   Ready 

Cr.  8vo.     $1.35  net.     (By  mail,  $1.45) 

New  York      G.  P.  Putnam's   Sons      London 


The  Melrose  Prize  Novel 

Awarded  $t,25O.OO 

The  Lure  of  the 
Little  Drum 

By  Margaret  Peterson 

With  Portrait  of  Author.    $1.35  net 
(By  mail,  $I.5O) 

This  strongly  conceived,  dramatic,  and 
exciting  story  of  Anglo-Indian  life  by  a 
new  writer  who  is  backed  by  such  high 
literary  authorities  demands  the  atten- 
tion of  every  reader. 

Mr.  Joseph  Conrad  says :  "The  whole  work 
is  artistically  sincere.  The  author  un- 
derstands her  people  with  a  first-hand 
knowledge." 

Mr.  W.  J.  Locke  says:  "A  well-written 
nervous  story  by  one  who  knows  India 
thoroughly.  The  drama  of  the  flight  is 
admirably  conceived." 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  041  805     3 


